


Bow Ye Down

by GlitterGluwu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harem, Angst, Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra (one-sided), Bitterness, Character Death, Character Study, Dubious Morality, F/M, Hubert von Vestra/Edelgard von Hresvelg (one-sided), Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Glenn Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Oblivious Caspar von Bergliez, POV Alternating, Sad Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sexual Slavery, Slow To Update, Tags May Change, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Underage Sex, United Fodlan, Unrequited Love, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24307780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterGluwu/pseuds/GlitterGluwu
Summary: In a world where the unification of Fódlan took place a generation earlier and the suppression of the Insurrection of the Seven was a much simpler task, a young Edelgard von Hresvelg stands to inherit a very different Adrestia when she comes of age.But Edelgard's eyes are not the lens through which we explore this new Adrestia. Instead, let us watch her approach her coronation through the eyes of those who see her in her most intimate moments - her harem, so to speak, composed of young nobles from houses crushed either during the war or during the Insurrection.Welcome to the Western Palace.Chapter one - Caspar, "Guard"Chapter two - Sylvain, "Lover"Chapter three - Hubert, "Chamberlain"
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley & Hubert von Vestra, Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Edelgard von Hresvelg & Everyone, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 30
Kudos: 43





	1. Guard

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so *English teacher voice* there's a lot to unpack here.
> 
> First of all, this is my first attempt at a proper multichapter in a long time!! I haven't often been good about committing to them, but this has already been such a labor of love I really hope to see it through to the end. I'm excited, and for this first chapter in particular I would like to thank Caspar von Bergliez for providing such an excellent vessel for exposition. (I am so sorry.)
> 
> Second, this AU is loosely inspired by the manga Ooku: The Inner Chambers! A few of the minor plot points and many of the word choices (Including "groom of the bedchamber" and the title, "Bow ye down for the entrance of our liege") are derived from that. It's an incredible alternative history narrative and I DEFINITELY recommend it, I gave it a good thorough re-read before starting in on this and I can definitely say it was well worth it.
> 
> Third, I held myself back on a LOT of tags for worry about spoiling future plot points or annoying the people searching for a specific theme. Since this fic's POV is going to change with every chapter, it stands to reason that certain characters or pairings are going to be in and out of the spotlight - so with that in mind, if you're curious or worried about what this fic has in store for you, I'd encourage you to peek at [this](https://privatter.net/p/5918740) privatter link to see what you're in for. If you don't want spoilers, carry on and enjoy!
> 
> And finally, I'm making ZERO promises as to how often this fic will update barring that I will post on Thursdays. Not every Thursday. Just Thursdays.
> 
> With that out of the way, please enjoy!

Caspar and Linhardt had already shared their beds a few times before their mutual commitment to the Western palace. They’d grown close over the four years preceding it, not knowing what was coming to them; their fathers worked closely together, even more closely with each other than with the rest of the Seven, and their friendship was a natural consequence despite their fathers’ mutual enmity. They’d snuck into each others’ rooms on visits, hiding under each others’ blankets and giggling over their shared secrets. Caspar could rant for hours, telling Linhardt about the places he’d visit all over the continent on his journeys one day, and Linhardt would blearily listen with a soft, warm smile on his face. Caspar remembered wishing Linhardt could be his brother so that he could spend every night like that.

Little did he know that their fathers’ hubris would be the very thing to turn that wish into reality. 

Caspar was eleven and Linhardt was ten when they were told that they would be entering into service in the Western palace. Caspar didn’t know what that meant; Linhardt apparently did. When Caspar asked where his father or brother were, the stony-faced Enbarr official didn’t answer.

The Western palace, Linhardt explained on the wagon ride over, was where the Emperor’s concubines were kept. It was an extremely secretive place, because the Emperor’s sexual life was, of course, an extremely secretive thing. He posited that, because the Emperor’s heir was a girl, they were overhauling the current state of affairs and populating the palace with seed stock from appropriately noble families.

Caspar processed about a tenth of what he was being told. “What’s a concubine?” he asked, and because his whisper was much less subtle than Linhardt’s he earned them a reprimand from their guide.

He would learn more over time. Between introductions to his new home, meeting other boys and men from across Adrestia - from the Faerghus Dukedom, from the Leicester territories, from other, more local noble houses - and sleeping in crowded bunks, at last  _ encouraged _ to share a bed with his would-be brother, he grew to understand.

His life was no longer his own. Caspar and Linhardt, as well as the other boys here - an Adrestian named Bernie, a Northerner named Sylvain, even an occupant of Enbarr castle itself named Dimitri - had all been committed as offerings to a princess who hardly knew they existed.

All things considered, his quashed dreams of exploration included, Caspar handled it better than most.

* * *

“Caspar!” reprimanded an older woman as he trotted past her through the hall. The fact that she was older was hardly noteworthy to him, of course - the only women he’d seen since being committed two years ago were former concubines of Ionius IX himself, honored with luxury rooms for having birthed children for their noble emperor. To Caspar, the majority of them were little more than a nagging nuisance. “Remember your rank. Axes stay in the training hall.”

Oh, he remembered his rank, alright. How could he not? He’d been promoted no more than half an hour ago.

“I got scouted! I’m training to join the guard now,” he announced, pausing in his jaunt and spinning to offer her a grin. “I’m just on my way to get my stuff.”

“A guard?” she murmured, raising her eyebrows. Caspar didn’t quite remember her name, but it wasn’t Patricia - this woman had birthed one or two of the deceased heirs that came before Edelgard. “What a shame… A strong boy like you should be in consideration as a concubine.”

Caspar didn’t know about all that, but he hardly saw fit to comment on it. Instead, he smiled even brighter and hefted his axe. “Well, it means I get to keep this with me, so it can’t be all bad!”

She hummed in consideration. “Well, I suppose our safety is in your hands, now. But do be careful.” And, because she apparently couldn’t let herself finish out the conversation without fussing once again, she added, “And  _ please _ sheathe your axe if you’re going to carry it about.”

Caspar reluctantly did as he was told and went on his way, her needling hardly having soiled his good mood. He arrived at the pages’ quarters and made his way to his bunk, delighted to find Linhardt already there, staring blankly into space. Perhaps news of his promotion had made its way there before he had.

He called his greeting and posed with his back to Linhardt and his hands on his hips, showing off his new trophy. Linhardt didn’t greet him back. “Look!” he finally said, and Linhardt sighed.

“Yes, Caspar, congratulations. Despite everyone’s lowest of expectations, you’ve managed to stay quiet long enough to sneak that here without anyone noticing.”

“Wh - No!” Caspar objected, turning to face his friend. “Christophe liked my fighting, I’m his protege now.”

“Ah.” Linhardt seemed - well, not the way Caspar expected him to, that was for sure. He was quiet for another moment.

“C’mon, this is awesome! I’m gonna be a guard, I get to train and fight as much as I want!”

“I’m pretty sure there’s - never mind,” Linhardt sighed, looking at the floor. “Congratulations, Caspar. It’s the perfect place for you.”

“Yeah! I’m pretty excited to get started - it’s been pretty quiet around here since Bernie left, you know? Wish I could visit him more, but -”

“I’ve also been offered a promotion, Caspar,” Linhardt cut in, already looking weary. “I’m being considered as a groom of the bedchamber.”

Caspar balked. “Wait, already? I mean, congratulations,” he paused, processing the revelation. “Uh, aren’t we… I mean, Edelgard’s still fourteen, right? What do they want with…”

“Edelgard is a very intelligent young woman, and apparently she favors the company of similarly intelligent people. I assume they’d like to ensure that they encourage scholarship in the right people early enough in their lives,” Linhardt posited. His brow creased.

“Well, that’s good, right? You get to study as much as you want for… Well, awhile,” Caspar offered. “Suits you better than cleaning rooms for some prissy old ladies. And you could… well,” he hesitated, feeling his face grow warm. “You could father the next emperor. That’d be cool.”

Linhardt met his eye and held it, studying him for a moment. “It doesn’t bother you? Being separated,” he asked. “I’m going to be groomed into a plaything for our princess, and you, for all intents and purposes, will be removed from consideration entirely. It stands to reason that we’ll hardly see each other from here on in.”

That did give him pause. Linhardt was the closest thing Caspar had to family, after all; he did exchange letters with his mother, but his father had been imprisoned and his brother was under close watch. He would never see any of them again.

But, if anything, that only granted him more certainty. “I’ll still have  _ some _ free time,” he offered. “And you’re gonna have basically nothing but. We can make it work.” He remembered something else, and it made him laugh. “I mean, the ladies pick favorites to visit them even  _ when _ they have other duties to attend to. If that’s what it takes for you to see me, well, you’ll have the power now!”

“You know what they  _ do _ when they call those gentlemen in, don’t you?” Linhardt asked him, cocking an eyebrow. He let the teasing end there, however, and stood from his mattress with a sigh. “Yes, well, consider me convinced. I’ll be sure to let Hubert know.”

“Wait,  _ Hubert _ scouted you? Okay, now I get why you were nervous,” Caspar whistled. “Do you think he’s got an interior motive?”

“Ulterior, Caspar. And perhaps,” Linhardt hummed, stepping away. “But don’t preoccupy yourself with my doings. You’d best get to packing, if you don’t want to spend another night in the servant’s quarters.”

Linhardt’s words stirred Caspar into action, haphazardly knotting all his belongings up in the one blanket he’d brought from home, but he continued thinking on Linhardt’s plight. They wouldn’t grow  _ that _ far apart, would they? They’d known each other even before their move to the Western palace. Linhardt was Caspar’s  _ family. _

Ultimately, he decided that the change was good for them both. Caspar would get to use his body in more physical ways just as he liked - even if the chance of the Western palace being attacked was slim - and Linhardt would get to live life without a schedule and without pressure to appease the various more prestigious offices.

They wouldn’t grow apart. Caspar would never allow it.

* * *

It was harder to sleep than Caspar had assumed it’d be.

He’d gone from sharing a room with a swath of other boys to just the polite, knightly Christophe, who was around twice his own age. Christophe had been recruited into the Western palace expecting to be the concubine to Branwyn, Edelgard’s eldest sister and the former heir to the crown; needless to say, that hope had died along with Branwyn herself. Still, he’d been committed for life, and so he stayed on as a guard.

Adding on to that issue, Caspar was in his own bed for the first time in over two years. He tossed and turned through the night, wondering how out of the question it would be to wander further into the palace to the grooms’ chambers until, all at once, Christophe was nudging him awake, announcing the start to the day.

Barring his troubles with sleep, however, he acclimated quite quickly. Christophe’s closest friends within the guard, another pair recruited during Branwyn’s time, had a lot more in common with Caspar himself than with his coach; Holst and Balthus seemed to welcome him into their fold with little quibbling, and Balthus even taught him a thing or two about grappling whenever their respective rest periods overlapped.

In fact, in those first few days, Caspar trained quite a bit more with Holst than with Christophe. Several questions rose to his mind when Christophe admitted that, though his skills in battle were many, axes were not one of them, but Christophe seemed reluctant to answer. Caspar figured it didn’t matter much; he was in his element now, dedicated to training up his muscularity and technique so he could accompany Christophe on duty as soon as possible.

It was one such day in the care of Balthus and Holst that, after toiling away with various weight-training exercises all through the day, the trio collapsed into a table in what passed for the mess hall; it was more upscale than any Caspar had ever seen before being committed, but hey, he was no princess. It wasn’t like his father’s knights had been expected to keep their spaces looking nice in case  _ he _ dropped by - more often, it’d been him tracking mud into their old mansion along with them.

“You know they got a new groom of the bedchamber?” Holst spouted at random, dunking a heel of bread into his stew and stuffing it in his mouth before speaking around his mouthful. “‘S just a kid. One of your group, I think.”

Caspar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before answering. “Yeah, he’s my friend! He got promoted the same day I did.”

Holst chewed laboriously through the heavy crust of his bread, studying him with a careful look. “Must be smart,” he finally said.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve known him for ages, sometimes I don’t even know what he’s saying. I just nod.”

“Work hard?”

At that, Caspar snorted. “Heh, no. His favorite thing to do is sleep. He hates working for anything.”

Balthus barked in laughter. “So he rose from the bottom up,  _ with _ his bottom up. Pretty cheeky for a kid.”

“Hey,” Holst chided, though his voice shook with laughter of his own. “He’s, like, thirteen.”

Caspar took a second to sift through the phrasing of it, setting his spoon down with a shaking hand. With his bottom -

All at once, he pushed up out of his seat and lunged across the table, grabbing for Balthus’s collar or his hair or - or  _ anything, _ shouting with the whole of his chest and completely disregarding his stew as it spilled across the table. He had a knee up on the table and was making his first swing toward Balthus’s wide eyes before his legs were suddenly swinging through midair, his hands clawing at nothing. 

“Hold on, hold on,” Holst grunted as Caspar’s boot collided with his thigh, only hiking him further up on his hip. Caspar barely recognized any of it over the pounding of his heart resonating all the way out to his fingertips and Balthus barking out “Hey, I knew I liked this kid!”

Whoops and hollers reached them from all around the common space as Caspar continued struggling fruitlessly against Holst’s grip, other guards egging on his one-sided enmity. Holst hauled him as far as the door before Caspar caught his breath and thought clearly, hissing through his teeth as red flashed behind his eyes.

Holst set him on the ground, surveyed his expression, and frowned. “Alright, Cas, what in flames was that?”

Caspar panted, processing the various bodily sensations surging through him. The heavy breathing, the pounding heart, that seemed par for the course - he’d been  _ angry _ before. What he couldn’t explain was the stinging in his eyes, because he wasn’t an angry crier. He never had been.

He just shook his head and wiped his nose. His throat stung as the tears fell. “I don’t know,” he said thickly, almost choking just in saying that much.

Holst crossed his arms, then tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. After a moment, he sighed through his nose. “Alright, well, I’m telling Christophe, obviously,” he said, and every word inched its way out of his mouth as if he hadn’t the faintest clue how he was meant to cope with this scenario. “You’re his protege, I don’t think it’s my place to… I mean, what you did was…”

He trailed off. Scratched his neck.

“This place isn’t,” Holst faltered, and Caspar eyed him. In the dimness of the corridor, with the door closed behind him, Holst’s pink hair was dusky red in color. “Whatever… you’ve been told… about that stuff,” he rumbled, and he was  _ wicked _ quiet in a way that Caspar had never heard him before, “There’s no  _ women _ here. It’s normal, Balthus wasn’t… trying to insult him.”

Caspar parsed his meandering explanation about as well as he parsed anything Linhardt told him following his free hours in the palace’s library, and it must have shown in his expression. Holst met his eye, deflated, and muttered, “Just go to your room. I’ll tell Christophe, this is his job.”

And then, Holst turned and fled back into the mess hall, meeting jeers from their companions. Caspar heard the low rumble of Balthus’s voice, too, and very nearly itched to rush right back in and have another swing at him. But Holst had made it perfectly clear that that was  _ not _ for him to do now, and Caspar figured he didn’t need to make anybody angrier with him.

Once he was back in his and Christophe’s room, he tried reading to distract himself, but the words swam together the more his brain twisted around on itself and he abandoned the book before long. Instead, he lay on his side on top of the covers with his arms wrapped around himself, pouting at the wall while he tried to disentangle his thoughts. Even before his commitment, Caspar had had issues with anger and self-control, but they hadn’t been treated as an  _ issue _ until he’d arrived here. He’d sort of hoped getting to be physical in his daily tasks would wear him down enough that he wouldn’t have to  _ try _ training his self-control.

He thought of Linhardt again in the context of what Balthus had said. Now that he thought it through, it was especially stupid; Linhardt had been almost  _ scared _ last Caspar had spoken to him. Of course he hadn’t… With Hubert, of all people.

Whatever logic told him, his gut was still twisting itself into knots and his eyes were still raw, growing even more so as a tear meandered down over the curve of his nose. Stupid. He should’ve had more faith in his friend. He should’ve told Balthus exactly why he knew Linhardt would never have done what he’d accused him of.

He pictured it, Linhardt’s smooth green hair spilling over his pillow, breathy gasps pouring from his lips as he - and then Caspar hiked himself up on his elbow and punched his pillow, seeing red and struggling to breathe through his tears. No, Linhardt would never.

He was up and pacing by the time Christophe opened the door. He turned on his heel and struggled to stand at attention, but one disappointed look from Christophe set his shoulders shaking and his vision clouding. When Christophe’s gentle hand guided him to the edge of his mattress, he sat without resistance and leaned into his shoulder as Christophe sat beside him.

“Holst tells me that Balthus said something terribly insensitive about your friend,” he murmured. “I’d like to hear your side, whenever you’re ready.”

Caspar clenched his teeth. He tried to organize his breaths into something steady, but they kept stuttering on their way in and out of him, following a pattern more akin to in-out-out-in-in-in. He forced a sigh and said, his mouth feeling gummy, “H-he said - Lin rose - He said he slept his way up.”

Christophe’s shoulder fell around a sigh of his own. “I’m sorry that happened,” he said plainly. “Balthus isn’t known for his sensitivity.”

“B-but he didn’t - Lin wouldn’t.”

Christophe paused. Caspar sniffed, unconsciously wiping his nose on Christophe’s shirt. If Christophe minded, he didn’t say anything.

“Caspar,” Christophe murmured, “I need you to understand that none of us are in a particularly  _ prestigious _ position. Grooms of the bedchamber least of all.”

“He didn’t -”

“Whether he did or didn’t isn’t the part that matters. The world will look upon him no kinder for it,” Christophe explained. “We can pretend as much as we please, but as much artificial prestige as we impose on the idea of fathering the next emperor of Adrestia, we are still here to look pretty and have sex.”

His throat felt too scratched up to let him speak. He squinted up at Christophe through the clouds in his eyes and saw him leveling his gaze at the opposite wall.

“Even as a guard,” Christophe croaked, “Our job is more to stand at attention and blend into the scenery. Who would attack the Western palace, when Enbarr is just a ride away?” He at last turned his head to meet Caspar’s eyes. “You have to become a wall, Caspar. A wall doesn’t listen, and it doesn’t feel. It’s there to provide shelter and protect. A wall doesn’t assault a friend because he said something stupid.”

Caspar frowned. Christophe spoke in metaphor often, but he spoke slowly, levelly, in such a way that Caspar kept pace with his words. It was kind of a relief, sometimes, after growing up with Linhardt. “But Linhardt’s honor...”

“You have a strong sense of justice. That’s not a weakness.” For the first time, Christophe smiled. “But a wall doesn’t think much about honor, Caspar. You can protect Linhardt in other ways.”

“Okay…”

“Besides which - you really have to understand that, in here? Sex to get what you want is… Well, not exactly praised, but not out of the ordinary.” Christophe looked away at that, then cleared his throat. Caspar straightened, suddenly not feeling like leaning on his shoulder anymore. “Especially with other men. Holst seemed to be preoccupied with that part of all this.”

“Huh?” Caspar grunted, feeling warm. “I mean - no, I was kinda - I was more mad that he thought Lin would do it at all than, like -”

“I know,” Christophe assured him. “Trust me. But… I doubt you’ll hear it elsewhere, so I think it’s worth discussing.”

Caspar picked at a spot on his trousers, unsure why it made him feel so  _ weird _ to be discussing this in particular. “Okay?”

“Being committed to the Western palace is… well, a life sentence,” Christophe began. “The crown cannot risk personal details of the Emperor’s sexual life being exposed to the public. It’s understandable, when so much of her life and her choices are going to be under public scrutiny, but… It does leave us in a difficult situation.

“We have our own desires as men, but when the only women permitted inside here are our liege and other former concubines, much older than us… Well, it’s only natural that we’ll seek alternatives,” Christophe cleared his throat. “Holst and Balthus, for example, are as committed to one another as any husband and wife I’ve known.” He paused, letting it all sink in.

Caspar himself didn’t know what to do with this information. He nodded, considering - he’d lived there for two years, so of course he had  _ some _ sense of what went on, but he felt a little stupid for not recognizing Holst and Balthus’s relationship. They shared a room, too, and it’d be silly to think it was because one was mentoring the other like with himself and Christophe.

He felt stupid for never having realized what was right in front of his face. Linhardt had had plenty to say about the older women picking their own favorites, but it wasn’t as if the grown men were any more subtle.

“All this to say,” Christophe at last continued, “Whatever you’re feeling toward your friend - whether it’s jealousy or affection - it’s alright, and it’s normal. I’m willing to discuss it whenever you’d like.”

Caspar nodded along, then jerked to attention. “Wait - Linhardt?!” he blurted, growing hot all over again. “No, that’s - I just wanted to defend him, I’m not  _ jealous. _ We grew up together.”

Christophe gave him a look; Caspar, as imperceptive as he knew himself to be, knew it to be skeptical. “Very well.”

“I’m serious! He’s a good guy, he -” Caspar floundered, growing more agitated by the second. “Balthus shoulda kept his mouth shut, he doesn’t know anything about him.”

“Then don’t let it bother you,” Christophe advised, cocking an eyebrow. Caspar clenched and relaxed his jaw, fighting down his next retort as Christophe continued, “It wasn’t my intention to make you angry again, just to clarify. If that  _ is _ how you feel, it’s alright. If it isn’t, then fine - let’s get ready for bed, okay?”

Caspar grappled with the impulse to argue again as Christophe stood from the bedside and set about undressing, but ultimately, after realizing how  _ tired _ he was after the day he’d had, decided to follow suit. He slid off the mattress and began disrobing, realizing as he went that Christophe had said very little about how Caspar’s stunt affected  _ him. _

“Why do you put up with me, anyway?” Caspar asked without thinking, unlacing the front of his trousers, and Christophe sent him an amused glance.

“You’re my protege.”

“Yeah, but why? We don’t even use the same weapon, you could’ve chosen someone else.”

Christophe was quiet for a moment. He finished changing in a quick, businesslike fashion and kept his gaze averted while Caspar finished in turn. “Are you worried, after what I’ve just told you, that I picked you as my own sexual favorite?” he asked at last, and Caspar froze.

He coughed uncomfortably as he finished settling his sleep shirt over himself and climbed into bed, laying his blanket over himself as if using it as a barrier. “Not ‘til now,” he confessed, and Christophe tittered. Whatever anxiety that inspired, however, was quickly dispelled when he replied.

“Well, that wasn’t my intent, I promise. No,” he sighed, almost contemplative. “I’ve all but grown up here, leaving my father lonely. And recently, I heard he adopted a trio of orphans.” At long last, he turned to give Caspar a weary smile. “The eldest, Ashe, is about your age, and since I figure I’ll never meet him or either of the others, I thought it’d be nice to adopt a little brother of my own here in the Western palace.”

That made Caspar smile. “Aw, thanks! I’m good with that, I kinda miss my own brother sometimes.”

“Although at times, I worry you might be more trouble than you’re worth.”

Caspar was momentarily taken aback. Then he saw a glint of mischief in Christophe’s expression and realized he’d just heard his straight-laced mentor  _ joke _ for the first time.

“You know what? That’s fair,” he conceded, and Christophe laughed warmly.

* * *

Following that incident, bizarrely enough, Caspar seemed to find his niche within the ranks of the guards. The next day earned him plenty of teasing for his having been so eager to jump someone as strong and brutish as Balthus - and there were plenty of jokes about the alternative definition of “jumping” someone as well - but ultimately, Caspar’s fiery temper and strong sense of justice won him the respect of most of his peers. He was teased often, but primarily as a method of entertaining themselves with his overblown reactions above anything born of ill intent.

In addition, Linhardt saw fit to summon Caspar to his quarters with relative frequency from the very beginning - despite their discrete schedules, Caspar saw his best friend at least once a week and delighted in sharing the hijinks he got up to with Balthus and Holst. Linhardt had fewer stories to share, but it seemed that every time Caspar visited his personal collection of books had grown larger. That, rather than Linhardt growing closer with other people, was the best indication Caspar could expect of Linhardt’s contentedness within his station. After all, Linhardt had never been much of a  _ people _ person, especially not when his closest peers were Sylvain, Ferdinand, and another remnant from Branwyn’s time in the much-older Glenn.

Others from his age group seemed to take to their roles over time, too. Dimitri had a brief apprenticeship in the guard as well, but was quickly reconsidered following a few too many instances of his breaking costly decorative weapons and joined Linhardt as a groom of the bedchamber instead. Caspar didn’t see much of Bernie until he was sent to pick up some newly-tailored uniforms for himself and a couple other new guards and discovered her dressed as a woman and vehemently protected by all the other tailors to her apparent,  _ highly _ vocal embarrassment. He hardly managed a “congratulations” before he was ushered from the room, but Bernie did have a friendly letter delivered to his quarters later that day. Lorenz pouted endlessly after Dimitri took what he interpreted as  _ his _ groom of the bedchamber position, but then he took an apprenticeship with the treasury and seemed to delight in the authority it granted him over the rest of the Western palace.

All in all, by the time Caspar was nearly fifteen, the Western palace seemed more than ready to serve the Empire’s heir in its formal capacity.

* * *

Edelgard’s first visits to the Western palace were the topic of much discussion in the days following her sixteenth birthday. She had attended, however briefly, in the company of her retainer, Hubert, and the ceremonies surrounding these visits were stiffer than what would eventually become the norm. Almost all the inhabitants of the Western palace’s upper echelon were expected to attend, including a newly-promoted Caspar; he stood at attention in his new, intricately embroidered uniform and holding an ornate ceremonial axe as Edelgard toured the halls, preceded by Hubert and followed by her grooms of the bedchamber. Linhardt took the time to roll his eyes at him, making him snort - and prompting a deathly glare from Hubert.

Following that visit, Caspar hardly thought anything of it when Linhardt requested his company less and less often. He was, after all, investing more time in being a sufficient partner to Edelgard; she began hosting smaller-scale visits, little dates into the gardens to get to know her entourage of concubines, and Caspar was, for once in his and Linhardt’s shared lives, sidelined.

He didn’t know why the only times when he sweat under his heavy, padded leather gauntlets on guard duty were when Linhardt and Edelgard passed him, heavily engaged in some academic discourse. Edelgard often seemed frustrated, and Linhardt in turn sounded coy and teasing specifically in the way Caspar knew him to behave when he felt stimulated mentally. It was a tone Linhardt seldom took with him, and by all means, he should’ve felt happy for his friend’s at last finding an intellectual equal.

Perhaps he was just concerned about the gossip circulating around Edelgard’s upcoming choice. The problem of the secret swain had fallen out of focus after Branwyn’s own deflowering, but circumstances had placed a new, virginal heir at the helm of the Western palace and inflicting harm on Edelgard’s person was as much a crime as it was for Branwyn.

Still, Caspar thought it was a little overboard to have the man to break her hymen  _ beheaded. _

Christophe promised Caspar that it was unlikely that Linhardt would be chosen. Edelgard herself was well aware of the antiquated law, so she probably wouldn’t choose someone she got on with as well as she did with Linhardt, especially when Linhardt himself was as young and as inexperienced as he was; she’d likely choose either Glenn or Sylvain. Caspar still didn’t care for the uncertainty of the scenario, though, and decided to visit his friend - with or without an invitation.

The grooms’ chambers were some of the most palatial in the entire building, and often, if not particularly well-populated, quite lively. They were frequently visited by tailors to make eye-catching formal wear for visits with Edelgard and even allowed to keep pets, not to mention their visits from their own chosen favorites. That day, however, the area was quiet; the doors to their common hallway were closed, and when Caspar listened for voices, he didn’t hear much.

He worried for a moment whether he’d find Linhardt there at all, but upon knocking at his door he was greeted by a familiar sleepy face. “Caspar?” Linhardt exclaimed, “I don’t suppose  _ you’re _ here to acquaint me with my duty.”

“Huh?” Caspar grunted. “No, Linhardt, I missed you! I was worried about secret swain stuff.”

Linhardt cocked his eyebrow. “Well, unfortunately, I’m rather busy. I’m expecting…” He trailed off, lifting his gaze in a contemplative way; Caspar cast a glance over his shoulder, wondering if he was missing something. “Very well, you may come in. Just for a little while, mind you, unless you’d  _ like _ to share my bed.”

Caspar snorted. “We’re not kids, Linhardt. I don’t need your help sleeping.”

Linhardt sighed for reasons unknown, then retreated into his room, inviting Caspar to follow. He was draped in an unfamiliar silken robe, likely crafted for him by Bernadetta - it was precisely the shade of green she had so often chosen for him. It looked nice, Caspar reflected, flowing over his pale legs the same way his growing hair flowed over his shoulders.

Linhardt collapsed into his personal seating area and yawned, “If you’d like tea, you’re free to make it yourself. Once again, however, it would be ill-advised, considering the rigor of my schedule.”

“Nah, I just wanted to see you! It’s been awhile,” Caspar chirped, making as if to sit in a chair opposite him before Linhardt stopped him with a gesture.

Linhardt considered him with a slow, sleepy blink, then patted the loveseat next to him. Caspar went obligingly, snickering when Linhardt droned, “It’s been so long since we’ve had an opportunity to nap together, Caspar. It’s as if everyone here’s gone and forgotten that this is meant to be a place of  _ leisure.” _

Caspar let Linhardt’s head settle on his shoulder with a snort. “I’ve heard enough from the guys about how you never work, it’s high time you did!” he chided him, careful to lower his voice as Linhardt sighed luxuriantly into his neck. It tickled a little, but it made something ache inside him too. Caspar blinked slowly, sinking into the intimacy of the moment and saying, to mitigate the sting of his teasing, “I miss you.”

Linhardt didn’t answer in so many words; he nuzzled warmly into Caspar’s shoulder and found his hand, holding it firmly in his own cool grip. It was so much softer than Caspar’s, completely devoid of calluses, and Caspar figured it was a good thing none of the other guards had felt that smooth skin for themselves or else they’d have even more snark about how little Linhardt worked. It made him think of his father kissing his mother’s hands, praising their softness and calling them “a noble lady’s hands”.

There was a strange, raw quality inhabiting his chest. Caspar wanted to consider why, exactly, that was, but was interrupted by a knock at Linhardt’s door.

“Please leave,” Linhardt groaned, and Caspar, despite himself, barked with laughter. Either heedless of or pointedly ignoring Linhardt’s instruction, Glenn invited himself into Linhardt’s room, raising his eyebrows at Caspar’s presence and wearing a robe similar in style and texture to Linhardt’s.

“Hi, Glenn!” Caspar greeted him, and Glenn then directed his silent judgement at Linhardt himself. Glenn was praised often among the guards, probably because he had once been a peer to so many of them; he’d been the only one of Branwyn’s grooms of the bedchamber to retain his position, purely by virtue of his prestigious lineage and extraordinary looks. Personally, Caspar didn’t really see it - to him, Glenn was kind of a sourpuss.

“You know what Hubert said about this favorite of yours, Linhardt. And you knew I was on my way.”

“Yes, well,  _ unfortunately, _ Caspar has a mind of his own,” Linhardt grunted, prying himself off of Caspar and rubbing his eyes in irritation. Caspar’s heart went out to him; he’d always struggled so much with fatigue, the newfound rigor of his schedule was probably doing him few favors. Linhardt gave him a rueful look. “This is your last chance, Caspar. I’d much rather lose my virginity to you than to Lord Fraldarius.”

“Your -” Caspar choked, then cut himself off with a laugh. “Don’t joke about that, Lin!”

Linhardt surveyed him, dull-eyed, and as his face grew hot Caspar wondered privately if he’d been  _ serious. _ Caspar hadn’t yet lost his own virginity, though he’d had opportunities - ones he often needed pointed out to him  _ after _ the fact, because his own denseness so often held him back in the worst kind of way - but to do it with Linhardt…

Well, he was almost relieved when Glenn stepped forward and waved him away, snapping “Back to your own chambers” and turning to Linhardt as he departed. His head was spinning, but in the end Caspar decided to dismiss Linhardt’s teasing as just that - teasing, because Linhardt loved to screw with his brain.

In all his preoccupation, Caspar managed to forget about the secret swain until the dark deed was carried out and he heard about the event secondhand.

Poor Sylvain. Always a bit much, but taken too soon nonetheless.

* * *

Christophe’s early advice about becoming a wall when on guard duty had been well-placed, but it was no less difficult for him to suppress his baser instincts. The only times he was really  _ punished _ for his indiscretions, furthermore, were when he served with Christophe or news of his misbehavior reached his mentor, so he wasn’t especially well-practiced at holding in laughter or hiding his boredom on long shifts. Edelgard seemed amused by this, actually; she took to waving at him as she passed, always closely followed by a glowering Hubert.

“It appears he’s concerned that her Highness will take a liking to a suitor he didn’t hand-pick himself,” Christophe mused. “It’s not the worst situation you could get yourself into, given your poor poker face.  _ Still,” _ he insisted, “You must do better.”

Caspar had trouble believing that line of logic. He figured it was more likely that Hubert didn’t like how Caspar reflected on his closest friend, or how he tended to distract him. Linhardt was more expressive when Caspar was around, and though he always had a tendency toward flouting rules and social standards, he was never more defiant about it than with Caspar. Even in Edelgard’s presence, Linhardt seemed to want little more than to make Caspar break character, and it only became worse when they grew to have less and less free time to spend together. Indeed, it seemed as if Linhardt came to a point where he was calling out to Caspar to  _ spite _ Hubert.

“You know, Edelgard, I’ve never known Caspar to be this quiet. Something  _ must _ be troubling him,” he said once, actively drawing attention to their connection for the first time. Hubert, of course, looked less than pleased.

“Really? I’m sorry to hear that, Caspar,” Edelgard replied, turning to him with an earnest look of concern. Caspar’s mouth opened and shut as he puzzled over whether he was meant to reply, silenced, at last, by Hubert’s glower and Linhardt’s assurance that he’d been joking. Edelgard covered her mouth and flushed deeply with embarrassment at her gullible reaction, and Caspar, despite himself, couldn’t help a tiny laugh of his own. Oh, Linhardt was going to pay dearly for that one - Hubert’s expression made him quite sure of that.

The problem was that Caspar was the one who took the fall for these indiscretions, not Linhardt. His schedule shifted around until he was almost exclusively working the night shift, then, when Hubert seemed to realize Linhardt was almost exclusively nocturnal himself, grew increasingly erratic until Caspar almost never knew where he was meant to be posted up and when.

Christophe was worried for him. Honestly, Caspar was kind of worried for  _ himself. _ Linhardt seemed determined not to lose in this battle of wills against Hubert, and Caspar didn’t want to concede defeat - he’d always been bad at that - but, well.

He  _ liked _ his job. He liked his  _ place. _ But he also liked Linhardt, and he didn’t want to tell him to stop trying to bridge the gap. Caspar hated the idea of losing his connection to the one person he’d known since before coming to the Western palace. Linhardt was special. He was his family.

Something had to give. And on that day in particular, Caspar was terrified that it was going to be him.

He was late to his shift in the gardens. He passed through the doorway quickly and quietly, slipping into his place and carefully ignoring a sidelong glance from the other guard on duty, then settled into his now-familiar stance, focusing his gaze clear ahead of him and realizing that Edelgard was present, sharing tea with Linhardt.

Caspar inhaled. When Edelgard spared a curious glance in his direction across the patio, he averted his gaze and ignored the movement in the periphery of his vision. He squinted through the bright sunlight, thinking to himself that he’d hardly had two hours to sleep since his training session that morning and frowning past the pressure headache rising behind his eyes.

He didn’t even realize his eyes had closed, but Linhardt’s voice, sharper than he’d ever heard it, woke him. “Edelgard, look at him. I’ve struggled with fatigue all my life and I’d never dare fall asleep in  _ your _ presence.”

Caspar jerked to attention, relieved to find he’d only just nodded off. His eyes frantically scanned the patio and discovered Linhardt up and approaching him - a couple steps behind Edelgard, whose brow was visibly knit with concern. 

Caspar had never seen his liege so close up before. He froze, inhaled, and then, belatedly, swept himself into an overbalanced bow, slurring out the words “Sorry - I mean, forgive me -”

“Enough,” Edelgard interrupted him, and he felt her hand meet his upper arm. She was surprisingly strong and straightened him with a single gesture, levelling him with a harsh, searching look. Caspar could  _ hear _ the frantic beat of his heart, almost drowning out her measured, mature voice when she said, “Go get some sleep. I’ll speak to your superiors about this.”

Panic sounded throughout Caspar’s entire body, bringing him the rest of the way into full awareness. “I’m -” he blurted on instinct, glanced at Linhardt - he had a weird expression on his face, what  _ was _ that expression - and shut his mouth with a snap, then bowed deeply once again, stumbled as he straightened, and bustled away.

He wasn’t smart by any means - Caspar knew that much. But that was the stupidest thing he’d ever done.

His eyes stung as he stumbled back to his room, his overburdened brain rifling through all the worst possible outcomes of this scenario; if whatever miracle it took to let him keep his position happened, now was the time to tell Linhardt to stop pushing back against Hubert.

The thought made his shoulders seize and he stopped in the middle of the hallway, left staring at the cold stone wall as he hiccupped around his panic and irritation. He hated this. This entire place - he’d dreamt of growing up someday to wander the continent, making a name for himself despite his status as a second son, becoming one of those classic folk heroes. He’d dreamt of taking Linhardt with him, and when he’d lost the first part of that dream to his commitment, he’d known he at the very least wouldn’t lose Linhardt.

Caspar heard Ferdinand’s voice, laden with concern, call his name down the hall and started walking again. The last thing he needed was a lecture on his impropriety from  _ him. _

The entire way back to his room, Caspar heavily doubted that he’d be able to sleep - but on first contact with his pillow, he fell fast.

* * *

“Caspar,” said Christophe. It was sharp, urgent. “Caspar, wake up.”

Another shift. Please don’t let him be late.

He rolled over and frowned with his eyes still closed. He still had his uniform on, at least.

His mattress shifted as he finally opened his eyes. Christophe moved about the room with an odd, nervous energy that Caspar hadn’t seen much from him. When he finally propped himself up into a sitting position, Christophe was on him, brushing his hair back and fussing under his breath.

“‘M up,” Caspar said, unconvincingly.

“You certainly are. Quick, get changed.”

“I’m already dressed,” Caspar rasped, squinting through his fatigue and taking Christophe in. He’d never seen him this manic. “You okay?”

Christophe inhaled in a bracing sort of way, his focus flickering between Caspar’s eyes and his, apparently, still-ruffled hair. “Edelgard has called you to her quarters,” he said quickly. “I would’ve come for you sooner, but I only just heard myself. I’m sorry,” he tacked on, tapping his lip in troubled contemplation. “I really never thought this was even a possibility, else I would’ve at least given you  _ some _ briefing on the matter. You’re so young...”

A couple facts sifted their way through Caspar’s tired mind - Christophe was a former groom of the bedchamber to Branwyn, and he seemed to have an odd measure of sympathy toward them. Edelgard had acted favorably toward him until their encounter that morning…

But no, it didn’t quite hit until he saw the white silk robe Christophe was twisting through his hands like a fidget. 

His mind went blank for a second. Christophe said something or other and Caspar replied in a flat tone; “Uh, wow. This is not where I expected my day to go.”

Christophe paused in his fidgeting long enough to laugh - a low one, but a real one. “I’ll be honest, me neither. When I heard about you falling asleep, I was prepared to see you demoted about as far as one can go.”

“Um -” Caspar faltered, feeling his face grow warm. “How am I - I’ve never -”

Grooms of the bedchamber  _ trained _ for this sort of thing. Caspar hadn’t realized that that’s what Linhardt’s appointment with Glenn entailed at the time, but after being told he’d understood enough. Caspar, on the other hand, was as virginal as they came.

“Well, the most I can offer is that Edelgard knows what she’s doing. Making sure of that was Sylvain’s job, not yours,” Christophe sighed. Caspar at last took the robe from him, starting to worry the guy was going to tear it with how tightly he was winding it between his hands. “She’s smart, she likely understands that she’s volunteering for an altogether different experience by choosing a guard over a groom.”

Caspar nodded, considering the garment in his hands. He swallowed. “Well, I - I guess I’d better,” he mumbled, his fingers going to the buttons at his throat. He exchanged a glance with an embittered Christophe.

“I suppose we’ll no longer share a room after this,” Christophe murmured, and the thought made Caspar’s chest burn.

“Hey, there’s still a lot of ways I could screw up,” Caspar reminded him, shrugging off his jacket, and Christophe rewarded him with a small, rueful smile.

He got dressed without much comment from his mentor, then shared a quick, tense nod with Christophe before stepping into the hallway. The robe was made from material he didn’t usually wear and there was a distinct level of discomfort in feeling it slip over his skin, almost liquid in nature. He guessed he could see how it’d appeal to some, but in the moment it only contributed more to his impression that he was out of his element.

Fortune spared him any encounters with particularly boisterous friends on his way to Edelgard’s room, but in an odd way he sort of  _ hoped _ he’d run into Balthus or somebody who’d rib him for his selection just to make things seem less alien. He’d even have accepted Sylvain, if not for the fact that Sylvain was -

He swallowed thickly. What if he did badly enough that  _ he _ ended up losing his head?

“Caspar! I am glad to see you are feeling better,” Ferdinand called as he passed through the grooms’ quarters, headed for Edelgard’s personal chamber further in. Caspar paused just long enough to give him a smile, which was apparently enough to tip Ferdinand off to his inner turmoil. “Goodness, Caspar, you look white as…”

Ferdinand trailed off, covered his mouth with the book he’d set down to call to him, and Caspar watched Ferdinand’s brow shift as he took in his outfit. He’d never seen Ferdinand look so  _ angry. _

“What’s your deal?” Caspar couldn’t help but ask. Ferdinand’s gaze flickered up to meet his.

If Ferdinand was about to explain himself, Caspar wasn’t given the chance to hear his defense; Linhardt, of all people, appeared as if out of thin air and hooked his hand in Caspar’s elbow. “Come, Caspar,” he hummed, “We mustn’t let you be late to an appointment with the princess for the  _ second _ time today.”

The reminder startled Caspar out of his puzzlement. His cheeks burned as he turned away from Ferdinand, who was still slumped in his cushy chair with his book, burning a hole into the rug with the intensity of his gaze. 

“Don’t let Ferdinand’s delusions of grandeur bother you,” Linhardt sighed, sounding both bored and unsurprised to have found Caspar where he did, dressed as he was. In fact, Linhardt was also dressed in his own silk robe, and an odd, maybe hysterical part of him hoped they’d be allowed to go in together. It might be weird, but at least he couldn’t screw up  _ too _ bad with Linhardt there to keep him out of trouble. “He’s terribly possessive for a living, breathing sex toy.”

The declaration actually startled a laugh out of him - with remarkably bad timing, considering that they were nearly to the end of the hallway, where Hubert stood guard at Edelgard’s door. Still, Caspar was grateful for even the small comfort in having Linhardt escort him the rest of the way.

Hubert wordlessly dipped his head as Caspar reached the door. He didn’t count himself the best judge of character, but the  _ malice _ dripping from Hubert’s gaze was pretty hard to miss, even as he stepped aside and held the door open for him. Linhardt, to Caspar’s immediate panic, relinquished his grip on his arm; at Caspar’s frightened look, he offered only a coy little smile.

“She’s not a  _ monster, _ Caspar,” Linhardt informed him. “That honor is all Hubert’s.”

Another glare from Hubert - but at the very least, this time, it was directed at Linhardt. Caspar nodded, his heart in his throat, and turned to enter the room.

“Caspar,” said Edelgard, and Caspar saw her sitting upright in a rich-looking seating area off to the side. He swallowed, then bowed. “At ease,” she bid him, beckoning him toward her, and he rose to follow her instruction. 

“You look nice,” she said, cordial and smiling as he’d often seen her - always with others, never directed at him. He just nodded, not trusting himself not to say something stupid, and she cocked her head. “Caspar, you really can relax. Whatever horror stories you’ve heard…”

“None!” he assured her, then cut himself off. She raised her eyebrows.

“Then, why not sit and have a pastry?” she suggested. “I have a few things to discuss with you.”

Not quite what he’d expected. Maybe she was just trying to loosen him up - that was pretty thoughtful of her. He stiffly rounded a chair and sat in it, then, at her prompting, took a pastry at random from the low table she had set out. She offered him a bemused look.

“I’ve never known you to be so shy,” she giggled. Her hair was down; she was wearing a richly embroidered, thicker version of the robe he was wearing. “Linhardt certainly didn’t make you out to be quite so demure in his descriptions, either.”

He gave her an apprehensive look. “You can speak, you know,” she reminded him, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“I’m just, uh. Pretty bad at talking, most of the time,” he admitted, and she nodded.

“I’m sure. You’ve been trained to be silent, not entertaining,” she offered. 

“Well, not like I’m good at  _ that, _ either.”

Edelgard laughed. “Well, no. But I appreciate that about you. It’s nice, with how stiff everyone seems to behave since I became heir, to know someone so ill-suited to all that nonsense. It’s the same reason why I like spending time with Linhardt - you really are two peas in a pod.”

Caspar raised his eyebrows. “Huh.”

“Is something the matter?”

“Nah, it’s just - most of the time, when people talk about us, it’s just to say we don’t seem like we would be friends.”

“Sometimes, an outsider’s perspective is necessary to understand such things,” Edelgard mused. “But no, I think the two of you as a unit make plenty of sense. I may be making assumptions, considering I don’t know you nearly as well as I do him, but based on what I’ve heard… it sounds like you really do complete each other. I’m almost envious.”

“Yeah? Well, you and Linhardt seem to get along just fine! I bet we could, too,” Caspar brightened. His stomach had settled enough; he took a bite of pastry and spoke around it. “I’ve always wondered what you guys are always yammering on about.”

She seemed almost shocked for a second, but her expression resolved into a careful smile. “Well… most of the time, it’s about a private matter I’ve asked him to research for me. But often, he’ll tell me stories about you. It’s… a comfort, in a way. I don’t get to hear new stories about my siblings anymore, but he always has something new to tell me about you.”

Caspar wiped a drip of jam from his lip. Edelgard  _ had _ lost a whole slew of siblings, huh… it was like the opposite of his experience. “I mean, I remember wishing he could be my brother, once. Being here kinda granted my wish, even if it changed a lot of other stuff.”

Edelgard’s expression fell. “I understand that,” she said quietly. “If I’d had any say, I promise you wouldn’t have been forced to stay here.” 

“Eh, it’s not so bad, now that I’ve gotten used to it. I just wish Hubert weren’t being so weird about keeping me and Linhardt apart.”

“That may be my own fault. Hubert believes you’re distracting him from… That personal matter I mentioned earlier,” Edelgard explained. She tilted her head, studying him. “But - to my previous point - Caspar, how would you feel if I gave you a way out? Your freedoms would still be limited, but you’d at least be able to see a bit of the outside world. I could grant you that much mercy, at least.”

The question took a moment to hit him. His mouth dropped open abruptly enough that a couple crumbs of danish fell onto his lap. “Wait, you’d do that?”

“Well, from what Linhardt told me, our fighting styles seem pretty compatible,” Edelgard replied, smothering some mirth at his expression into her palm. “And I like what I’ve heard about your personality, and you’re entertaining enough in our existing relationship. How would you feel about becoming my personal guard?”

Caspar’s heart soared. “Wait, so you - you didn’t ask me here just to fuck me?” he blurted. Edelgard squeaked with laughter.

“No!”

“You want me - yeah! Obviously, yeah, I wanna do that,” Caspar gushed, practically vibrating with energy. “I’d work so hard for you, Edelgard, I wanna get out in the world so bad -”

“Caspar, you - you can give it more thought than just that,” Edelgard rushed to remind him. “You’d have to say goodbye to a lot of what you’ve come to know here, you know. You’d see a lot less of Linhardt, of your mentor…”

That, at last, gave him pause. He hesitated with his mouth open, offering her more space to reply.

“Whatever your relationship to Linhardt - brothers, lovers, it doesn’t matter - he… he has to stay here,” Edelgard spoke clearly, “Even setting aside his duties here, the research he’s doing is incredibly important to a personal dream of mine. As much as I’d love to free every last one of you the moment my coronation is done, there are systems in place that prevent me from doing that.” Her eyebrows knit in irritation as she continued. “I intend to dismantle those systems, to eliminate the need for rigidly kept lines of succession… and, in a more specific sense, for this entire place.

“In the future I’m planning, you and Linhardt could be together. In any way you saw fit,” she promised, her voice growing thick with emotion. “You’d never have to separate again, if you didn’t want to. I can’t say for certain when that’ll happen.” She met his gaze, her eyes dewy. “But I do know it will come sooner, with you by my side.”

Caspar swallowed. “I think,” he mumbled, feeling a little stunned, “Most of that flew right over my head, if I’m being honest with you.”

Edelgard nodded. “I can share more details, if and when you accept.”

“I mean - okay, one, I don’t… hate this place. I like a lot of the guys here.”

“I do.” Edelgard spoke in a tense tone, knotting her fingers in her robe. “I hate much of what this place represents. But this isn’t about me. Go on.”

“Two,” Caspar cleared his throat, “Uh, you seem to think I feel… Things… For Linhardt.”

Edelgard blinked. “I see,” she murmured. She averted her gaze, studying the patterns in the carpet, and Caspar thought he saw the barest hint of a rueful smile curling her lip. “Well, you have to understand - Linhardt speaks very favorably about you. Whatever the nature of your feelings -  _ either _ of your feelings - I strongly urge you to take them into consideration while you make your decision. The last thing I want is for you to resent me because you felt coerced into leaving someone dear to you.”

Caspar almost felt compelled to argue again, but the objection died in his throat.

Linhardt was like a brother to him. The closest in the entire - no, that was Christophe… Christophe was like a brother to him, but Linhardt was even more important. Why was that?

He took a deep breath.

“Take the night to think about it,” Edelgard encouraged him. “Take some time to yourself, perhaps discuss it with someone you trust, and then, in the morning, I’ll ask for your opinion. Alright?”

Caspar nodded. Edelgard sighed and leaned back on her pillows.

“Now, I suppose I’ll fall under fire if I don’t at least pretend at the activities this place was built for. Send for… Hm, send for Dimitri as you leave.”

Caspar got up and left. The rugs softened his footfalls, but between them lay stone floor that echoed his bare footsteps in the cavernous room. When he stepped out the door, he told Hubert that Edelgard had called for Dimitri and turned down the hallway.

Linhardt was lounging in a chair outside his own room as Caspar passed, almost catatonic but somehow managing to part his eyelids as Caspar drew closer. “She doesn’t want  _ me, _ does she?” he slurred, and when Caspar shook his head he sighed with relief. “Good. Much as I adore the girl, she knows as well as I do that I’m hardly inclined to service her more than absolutely necessary.”

Caspar let out a dry laugh, then fell silent. Linhardt reopened one eye and surveyed him. “So?” he prompted, “have you accepted her proposal?”

Caspar took a deep breath. He bent at the waist and collapsed into Linhardt’s lap, ignoring the startled response from his best friend. He inhaled; Linhardt smelled like something, but Caspar couldn’t say what.

He closed his eyes, centuries away from making his decision, absorbed only in the bizarre, clumsy, overwhelming affection bubbling up inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (No promises, but) With my current trajectory, I believe I'll have the next chapter up the week after next.
> 
> As for the POV character... He's "dead".
> 
> Comments and kudos are deeply appreciated. Also, [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/glittergluwu)


	2. Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain learned to walk the walk fast. He knew the expression that would catch Ionius’s older concubines’ attention, and he knew just how to nod so that they would conceal their astonished laughter behind their palms. He knew which of them were desperate enough for male attention that they’d invite a fourteen-year-old boy to their rooms and pamper him, and he knew how to spin the conversation so that he’d have a chance in their beds.
> 
> It began as a skill necessary for his own survival. From there, it became a _game._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is HERE!!!! I hadn't expected to post this week, but it came to my attention that Sylvain's birthday is June fifth and, well, I wanted to... honor him? If this can be called that. (It's already the fifth in Japan, so I'm not breaking my "only posting fic on Thursday" rule AND honoring his birthday. Nice!)
> 
> I didn't have quite so much time to beta this chapter so I'm a little worried about it, but I hope it strikes a chord nonetheless. Do be sure to read the tags, and also know that Felix and Bernadetta are both referred to by pre-transition terms here. (No transphobia, though. I have no intention of including that in any chapter.) This chapter's a fair bit darker in tone than the last, so take care of yourselves.
> 
> That said, I hope you all enjoy Sylvain's chapter!

Much of Sylvain’s formative years were spent hearing tales of Faerghus’s former glory, however much he wished otherwise. His father was insistent about little aside from being left alone when he demanded it or being listened to when he droned on about the territories he should have inherited from his own father. To Sylvain, the very notion of living even further North - much less living in a home separate from Glenn and Faye, both of them as much his siblings as Miklan - felt ludicrous. To a young boy, stories of King Klaus II being beheaded and Prince Lambert’s lifelong imprisonment just sounded like more bitter words from his bitter father’s mouth.

“Heard Lambert has a kid now,” slurred his father, posted up, as ever, in what should have been Rodrigue’s study. He’d long since co-opted it for himself, taking advantage of an old friend’s kindness. “One day, they’ll liberate the lion and Faerghus will rise again.”

“Sure it will,” Miklan muttered under his breath, earning them both a barrage of abuse and an order to get out and leave him alone. Sylvain was more than grateful for the excuse and stumbled clumsily after Miklan as he made his escape, calling after his brother to slow down.

Miklan was ill-tempered, but he always found adventures for their group to engage in, heedless of whatever rules they’d break along the way. Glenn was his opposite, in some ways - committed to the rules, but kinder in the moments where it mattered most. Faye had supplanted Sylvain as the youngest two years earlier and grew into his own closest companion, a welcome reprieve after so long of feeling like a hapless third wheel to Glenn and Miklan’s bond.

That part of his life didn’t last long, but it would linger in his mind long into his adult years. Memories of Miklan’s dares, of Glenn’s laughter, of Faye sitting heavily in his lap because he insisted he was big enough to hold her. However cold it may have been outside, their home was warm - so long as they all steered clear of one particular room in Castle Fraldarius.

Sylvain couldn’t say for sure when he became particularly  _ aware _ of the control the Empire held over their heads. He recalled instances where he and the others wanted to go into town and Rodrigue only sadly shook his head, saying to ask a servant, that he was forbidden from leaving the castle. He recalled dryly rustling hedges and withered flowers in the castle gardens that he didn’t think much of until he heard Rodrigue mention he could no longer afford to employ a gardener.

Most of all, he recalled the day an Imperial envoy arrived at the castle gates and asked, not for taxes, but for boys.

He would never forget Faye’s confused, faintly distressed noises at Glenn holding her tighter than he ever had before, smothering his tears into her tiny - and yet, somehow, oversized - coat. Miklan held it together somewhat easier, but Sylvain didn’t miss the heaviness of his breath or the subtle clench of his gloved hand.

Sylvain got to hold Faye again as the carriage rolled away. She still seemed not to understand, but when Sylvain began to cry, she did, too.

* * *

Ingrid was presented to them shortly thereafter, as if a new sister was meant to console them after effectively having lost two brothers. Sylvain was beginning to understand, bit by bit, even though he was still too young to grasp the full story; the tale of House Galatea’s financial ruin echoed through Castle Fraldarius for years afterward, a haunting reminder of what House Fraldarius might become if they didn’t meet with the Empire’s expectations.

As soon as he could read and write, Sylvain began exchanging letters with his two older brothers. He haltingly told them about his new sister, the old sister, and all that he was learning.

The thing was that sometimes, they didn’t reply. Over time, Sylvain grew to realize that it happened most often when he spoke of the state of affairs in Faerghus. He stopped sending those letters so that instead he’d have something nice to read out to the girls every couple weeks, even after they themselves learned to read and write.

“Sylvain,” called a maid, an older one. They were all older, now; women who had worked for the Fraldarius estate for so long that they had nowhere else to go, no matter how poorly the house did for themselves. “The courier brought a letter.”

He was nine. It hadn’t been longer than two days since his last letter; he usually didn’t receive one back until he’d composed and sent a reply. Still, he saw little reason to worry - maybe something good had happened, something Glenn simply couldn’t wait to share.

He gladly accepted the letter and trotted away to Faye’s room, where he, predictably, found Faye and Ingrid quietly arguing over this, that, or the other thing. He waved the letter over his head as he spoke over them. “Glenn wrote! It’s from Glenn!” he announced, and Faye lifted her head. Her ribbons were all askew, but that was hardly out of the ordinary for either of the pair.

“Again?” Faye grunted.

“Don’t be so cross,” Ingrid scolded her, tugging at one of her pigtails and earning a swat in return. “He’s your brother.”

“You’re just excited ‘cuz of your crush.”

“How could I have a crush on a boy I’ve never met?!”

Sylvain ignored their arguing - as long as neither of them were picking a fight with  _ him, _ he figured it was easier to let the catfights play out - and walked to his normal seat, then cracked the seal on the envelope and brought the page out. It was only the one page, which was… unusual, but not unexpected, given how short it had been since Glenn had last written.

_ “Dear Sylvain,” _ he read aloud, loud enough to catch the girls’ attention,  _ “I apologize if I’ve caused you alarm by writing so soon after my last letter. Unfortunately, there’s not much I can say to…  _ to -” Sylvain squinted at the writing. “Ass -”

Ingrid gasped. Faye snickered.

“Ass - u - age,” Sylvain sounded out, then, satisfied with his reading, continued,  _ “- your fears. I see little for it but to say it straight; Miklan has…” _

He trailed off. A lump rose in his throat as Faye pressed, “Well?”

He passed the letter to Ingrid. He couldn’t read any more.

That night, his father’s voice rang through the entire castle. He screamed and screamed, lamenting that the least Miklan could’ve done for their wretched, ruined family was beget an heir with the imperial princess. He had done them all a disservice in dying of whatever ailment had taken him before fulfilling that duty.

What puzzled Sylvain, and seemingly nobody else, was the fact that Glenn had made no mention of Miklan being ill in his previous letter.

* * *

Life moved on. Sylvain exchanged letters with Glenn. Faye became Felix. Ingrid read - and read - and  _ read _ about the Faerghus of old and gradually became more enchanted by the antiquated ideal of knighthood.

At eleven, attending a festival in Fhirdiad, he heard the words for the first time from a mouth other than his father’s;  _ “Liberate the Lion!” _ screamed some peasant, and black flames broke out over awnings, racing at an unnatural pace along the open, crowded streets. More voices joined the chant, all demanding the same thing.

Sylvain, conscious of Rodrigue’s reminder to protect the younger two in his stead, turned and pulled them close as he scanned the crowd for the Fraldarius staffpeople who had escorted them there. There was so much chaos, Sylvain hardly knew friend from foe - and he could hardly hear Felix’s words, even spoken directly beneath his ear.

“Huh?” he all but shouted, but when he looked, he hardly needed to hear.

Felix’s eyes were wide, wet with tears, and yet - the dark reflection of fire shone dancing in his irises, warring with the familiar, frail impression Sylvain had of his oldest friend. He didn’t understand what was happening - none of the night’s events made any sense - but worst of all, he felt fear both  _ for _ and  _ of _ the lithe, trembling form tucked under his right arm.

The Fraldarius staff found them at last. They covered the boys’ faces and let Ingrid walk ahead of them, glancing over her shoulder in confusion.

But they got away. They reached home in one piece, where Rodrigue, baffled over the ash coating the children’s clothing, learned of the riots for the first time. Sylvain could see conflict bloom in his tired, resigned blue eyes, and that conflict didn’t wane for the rest of the ensuing three years.

Not until the very day that another Imperial envoy approached their door.

* * *

Sylvain was fourteen when he entered the Western palace. He was one of the most senior of the entire batch - and he was also, he was soon to discover, among the only ones to understand the full scope of what they were meant to  _ do _ there. They all began as houseboys, soon to diversify in function as their superiors grew to understand their individual strengths.

Glenn called for him the very first afternoon he spent there. It was a relief, to be sure; something felt  _ perverse _ about repeatedly explaining to a room of younger boys that they were there as eye candy for an older, apparently extremely deviant princess.

But Glenn was there. That much, he could say, was a relief.

He greeted him in the servant’s quarters, curtly explaining that he didn’t expect Sylvain to know his way about the palace just yet. Sylvain, for his part, was stunned.

Glenn had grown up. He was  _ beautiful. _

Where Felix had made quite a show of shearing his hair short when he transitioned, Glenn’s hair was long, swaying back and forth over his shoulders as he walked ahead. When he turned to look at Sylvain, his piercing blue eyes gazed at him out of immaculate, pale skin. He had the Fraldarius family’s signature eye wrinkles, but where Felix and even Rodrigue seemed, at times, to glower, Glenn appeared to assess, to dissect, and even to seduce.

He was also shorter than Sylvain, to his surprise. He knew he’d grown, but he’d always imagined Glenn being so  _ big. _ Not that he’d remembered much of how he looked to begin with, but he hadn’t quite pictured this.

The rooms grew more palatial as they approached the inner chambers, rivaling and even outpacing Sylvain’s memories of Castle Fraldarius in his earlier years - lush draperies and rugs, polished furniture, guards dressed in as fine of garments as Rodrigue might wear as Duke Fraldarius. He saw a flash of an ornamental sword, designed for looks over function, and for the first time, he felt something small, something  _ bitter _ sprout in his chest.

Were these the kinds of sights his father recalled when he rambled, slurred and incoherent, about all that had been taken from them? Could  _ Faerghus _ really have looked like this, at one point?

They reached Glenn’s room, and that bitter seedling grew, taking root in Glenn’s four-poster bed, his satin sheets, the loveseats and pillows laid out for lounging upon. It made him sick to his stomach.

Glenn seemed to decipher his astonishment from his expression. “And this is how they treat their  _ whores,” _ he sneered, shocking Sylvain at the use of the word. Miklan had always been the one with the sharp tongue - at least, until Felix had learned the parlance. “You haven’t yet seen our princess’s room.”

“I can only imagine,” Sylvain admitted. Heat coiled in his chest, creeping up into his throat. He might really vomit if he thought too hard about it. “How have you been?” he asked, desperate for a change of subject.

Glenn didn’t answer for a moment; he slumped into a chair, leaned his head on his hand and surveyed Sylvain closely. “How much do you know?” he asked.

“Huh? I mean, I know we’re here to…” He cleared his throat. “Produce an heir with Branwyn.”

“Not Branwyn.” Glenn sighed, shifting tiredly around. “Sit down. I can send for something to eat.”

Sylvain frowned, but did as he was told; Glenn loped to the wall and pulled a cord that Sylvain had hardly paid any mind. He remembered them from Castle Fraldarius - they hadn’t had any effect there, but Glenn appeared to know something that he didn’t because he returned to his seat for the moment.

“Very well. To put it bluntly, Branwyn’s dead,” Glenn explained, to Sylvain’s dismay. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d heard more than me. But I believe she’s gone, along with most of the Empire’s line of succession.”

“How…? What could’ve…”

“They’ve suppressed much of what happened. Most of us here are protected from outside politics as much as they’re able to achieve; I’m sure that they have concerns over whether we’ll attempt an uprising from the inside,” Glenn explained, picking at his nails. “After all, it would hardly do to have the princess’s own bedmate attack her when she’s at her most vulnerable.

“However, considering you know even less than I do, I’ll share what I’ve learned. There’s been a revolt among Empire nobles; I don’t know the details, but I do know that I haven’t heard from Branwyn in three years, and perhaps a week ago my fellow grooms were all demoted and we were informed that we’d be receiving a delivery of new blood.” He paused to look pointedly in Sylvain’s direction. “Considering  _ I _ maintained my position because I was once her favorite, I doubt that Branwyn suddenly developed an interest in pubescent boys. Based on the general age of your group, I’d guess she isn’t the only Imperial heir that lost their life.

“Ultimately,” Glenn concluded, “I assume that our latest influx is both a demonstration of power to the nobles who revolted, and an attempt to furnish the Western palace with appropriate suitors for our new princess. There really weren’t any noble Empire boys in my group, and there seem to be quite a few in yours.”

Sylvain nodded along with the rush of information, feeling sicker with every word. The worst part of it all was the divide he felt between  _ sympathizing _ with the slaughtered heirs, understanding with a startling new clarity how terrible it felt to be stripped of so much, and hating them, thinking privately that they’d gotten what they deserved.

“Who’s the princess now?” he asked, interrupted immediately afterward by a knock at the door.

“That’ll be the snacks,” Glenn muttered, then called, “Come in.”

Apparently, the cord Glenn had pulled earlier had been a direct line to the servants; a young man rolled a trolley in, offering Sylvain a curious look and Glenn a small bow and tailed by a member of Sylvain’s group. Glenn acknowledged him with a nod, beginning to speak as if he weren’t even there. “I don’t recall her name, but I do know her mother. Patricia’s quarters were looking quite a bit more stately, last I saw them.”

The servant departed without so much as a thank you from Glenn, and Sylvain exchanged a look with the blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy before he caught up with his mentor. He was younger than him, already being trained as a servant despite likely having noble blood.

He was really going to vomit. Glenn hadn’t even  _ acknowledged  _ him. Sylvain needed to act fast if he wanted a goddamn speck of respect in this place.

“Have a treat,” Glenn invited him, but Sylvain couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He swallowed down the sickness in his gut and asked, “Glenn, how do I get promoted here?”

Glenn surveyed him coolly over the rim of his teacup, and Sylvain  _ wished _ he would glower. At least it would feel more familiar, more comfortable, than this.

“Become someone’s sexual favorite. Several peoples’, if you can,” Glenn answered, finally. He glanced down over Sylvain’s body, clad as it was in plain clothes,  _ servants’ _ clothes, and nodded as if to himself. He placed his cup on the saucer and stood. “Come to bed,” Glenn said, and the sickness only grew. “Let’s see if you can get your first leg up.”

* * *

That night, Sylvain kept to himself. Word seemed to have gotten out among the younger boys about their purpose there without his interference, and Sylvain was grateful; he buried his nose in an instructional book Glenn had given him after they’d lain together and fought to keep his expression straight as he perused the subject matter.

It was easy enough as everyone settled in, but eventually the boys, too fidgety from being in a new place to sleep, began chatting with one another, telling each other where they were from. The blond boy from earlier was in with this group, soft-spoken but pulling Sylvain’s attention no matter how he endeavored to ignore him. He learned his name was Dimitri.

“No way! You grew up with her?!” exclaimed one of the younger boys, a loud one whose name Sylvain couldn’t remember. His friend hushed him and resumed attempting to sleep on his shoulder.

“Y-yeah? In Enbarr castle,” Dimitri said in a hushed tone. “We were like brother and sister.”

“Well, I know Edelgard too!” chirped another, a redhead. “She is quite accomplished, but I still beat her at chess when we were seven!”

He made this announcement with a prominent, puffed-up chest. Sylvain remembered what Glenn had said about these Adrestian noble boys, and this boy - Ferdinand - was the perfect example. Despite his new status, he was clearly raised into a place of pride that Sylvain had not been so lucky to experience.

It made his eye twitch.

“I just hope she’s okay,” Dimitri mumbled, drawing circles on the stone floor. “I haven’t seen her in so long…”

Another boy - Bernie, who Sylvain had been somewhat intrigued by since he’d seen him vigorously sketching in a little notebook that morning, holed up in his own private corner - attempted to change the subject. “W-well, where are you from, Sylvain?” he asked, in a high, nervous voice. Sylvain would never have guessed that he was actually older than the others based on his demeanor.

He gave Bernie a little smile, hoping it’d give him some comfort - he reminded him of Felix when he was younger, in a way - and said, “Fraldarius territory. Up in Faerghus.”

A collective gasp sounded around the little cluster; even the loud boy’s sleepy friend seemed interested. Sylvain scratched at his neck as the loud boy cried, “Wait, really? Is all that stuff about Faerghus true?”

“What stuff?”

Ferdinand fidgeted with the tension, bursting at the seams with questions and too polite to ask; his friend Lorenz, who had gotten no such reaction upon revealing he was from Leicester, looked miffed at the slight. Bernie had curled into a little ball, retreating from Sylvain’s side.

Only the loud blue boy seemed willing to open his mouth. “My brother said there’s no food up there, so people eat each other. N’ they burn stuff and worship a god that looks like a lion.”

The strange thing was, Sylvain could see exactly where they’d gotten these sorts of rumors from; it was amusing, in a way. “Well, Faerghus winter  _ is _ pretty brutal. Sometimes frost kills our crops, but we can hunt… And we worship the goddess, just like you.”

The little blue boy looked genuinely taken aback by this. His friend sighed, “Caspar, if you ever opened a  _ book, _ you’d know Bernhard lies all the time.”

Caspar flushed as titters broke out in their group, as if dispelling the tension of the earlier moment. The only one who still looked uncomfortable was Dimitri; Sylvain gave him a curious look and asked, “Hey, if you wanna know, I’ll tell you. Seems like we’ve got a pretty bad reputation.”

Dimitri startled a little and looked down at his hands. He opened his mouth, then shook his head; the conversation naturally moved on, but Sylvain kept an eye on him, wondering whether it was normal for Empire nobles to live  _ in _ Enbarr castle and what, exactly, Dimitri’s family had done to earn the honor.

Someone came by to shush them soon enough, an older servant who clearly did  _ not _ want to be tasked with keeping an eye on the new batch of younglings; they were all pressured to lay two to a bed, though Sylvain and Bernie, being older, were granted enough seniority to get their own. Sylvain lay on his side, watching as Caspar paired off with his sleepy little friend and Ferdinand paired off with Lorenz. He watched Dimitri shuffle around, looking for a free spot and failing, and at last sighed, got his attention, and waved him over.

“Better me than Bernie,” he reasoned. “He’s a bit of a loner.”

“Thank you,” Dimitri mumbled, quiet as a shadow, and wriggled in next to him. He wasn’t as big as Sylvain, no, but they were both far from the smallest of their group; they had to lie on their sides, and Sylvain was left face-to-face with Dimitri’s wide,  _ sad _ blue eyes.

He searched his mind for something to say, but Dimitri was way ahead of him. “C-could you…” he murmured, staring at Sylvain’s neck, “Tell me more? About Faerghus?”

Sylvain raised his eyebrows. “If you’re looking for a scary story, I got a lot better than the ones about Faerghus. Faerghus is…” he trailed off, thinking about all he’d seen that day. A lump rose in his throat - he’d never thought of Faerghus as  _ pitiable _ until he’d seen Adrestia. “Mostly just sad,” he finished, truthfully.

Dimitri knotted one small hand in the sheet. “I see.”

Sylvain’s own curiosity overtook him. “Hey,” he said, and Dimitri met his eye again. “Who’s your family? I didn’t know Adrestian nobles lived in Enbarr.”

Dimitri opened his mouth, then bit his lip. Finally, he said, “I’m not Adrestian.”

“Oh?”

He nodded, looking very serious. He glanced over his shoulder, and Sylvain was about to ask what he was so worried about until he turned back and took a deep breath.

“I’m a Blaiddyd.”

Sylvain jerked to attention. The significance of the revelation appeared both to be lost on and appreciated by Dimitri - his expression was vacant, but he nodded, taking in Sylvain’s gaze, the stinging in his eyes.

Too much had happened that day. He’d discovered the depth to which Adrestian rule had stamped out Faerghan culture; he’d lost his virginity and uncovered a new path to the top; he was lying face-to-face with Faerghus’s one great hope, the one the voices of Fhirdiad called for, the lion that roared liberation.

And Dimitri knew none of that. From what Sylvain could tell from the tears beading in Dimitri’s eyes at his prolonged silence, he knew only that he’d told a terrible secret.

“Please don’t get mad,” Dimitri begged, and Sylvain’s big-brother instinct surged in him, cloaking the bitter seedling that continued to grow in his chest.

“Hey, hey,” Sylvain whispered, taking on the same tone he did when Felix cried or Ingrid screamed. He reached for Dimitri’s long, straight hair, tucking it behind one ear and murmuring, “It’s okay. I’ll tell you a secret, too.”

“Mm?”

“I grew up in the house your family used to get their bodyguards from,” Sylvain whispered, pulling Dimitri close, speaking low and soft. “In another life, we would’ve grown up together. Isn’t that weird?”

Dimitri made a small, amused noise. “Yes.”

“I’m glad I found you,” Sylvain admitted, stroking Dimitri’s hair. He stared down the line of cots, end to end to end to end, paralyzed by a silent kind of rage. “Edelgard was like your sister? Well, I can be your brother.”

Dimitri relaxed into his hold. His voice was sweet, contrasting with the bitterness taking him over. “I’d like that,” he breathed, and Sylvain fumed.

* * *

He learned to walk the walk fast. He knew the expression that would catch Ionius’s older concubines’ attention, and he knew just how to nod so that they would conceal their astonished laughter behind their palms. He knew which of them were desperate enough for male attention that they’d invite a fourteen-year-old boy to their rooms and pamper him, and he knew how to spin the conversation so that he’d have a chance in their beds.

It began as a skill necessary for his own survival. From there, it became a  _ game. _

And Glenn -

It was like his older brother was little more than a memory, as dead to him as Miklan. Glenn became a collection of whorish moans stolen from underneath him, a pretension at teaching him the ways of the Western palace that dissolved into a toy for his pleasure like any of the rest of them. Sylvain pretended at loving him just like he pretended at loving any of the older women there, eager to use him just as Glenn begged him to.

Every time he tried to have an earnest conversation with him, Glenn lost interest. He listened, dead-eyed, to Sylvain telling him what Ingrid had written in her most recent letter, to anecdotes about Felix entering his own rebellious phase and to anxieties about Rodrigue or his own father, and then he asked, flatly, whether he was done.

Sylvain learned before long that his own frustration at Glenn’s indifference accomplished little.

“Look,” he grunted, pushing Glenn’s hand off of his thigh for what felt like the millionth time that evening. “I get that  _ you’ve _ spent ten years holed up in a place where nobody gives a shit about you, but  _ I _ still care about these people. The least you could do is pretend.”

He knew, from the first flicker of Glenn’s expression, that he’d made a mistake.

“Pretend?” Glenn said. He pressed further into Sylvain’s space, and Sylvain, despite being taller, shrunk back. “What in flames do you  _ think _ I’ve been doing all this time? I pretend to  _ survive,” _ he spat, and he broke into a glower that would, once, have been a comfort. “The last person I could be genuine with was murdered five  _ years _ ago, and you dare tell me I’m not committed enough?”

Sylvain searched for the words to respond, distracted by the phrasing and longing to ask, but knowing he couldn’t. Glenn hovered above him, eyes blazing. Sylvain opened his mouth, and Glenn cut him off, suddenly saccharine though his eyes were brimming with tears.

“Your Highness,” he said, sounding like a gentleman, sounding precisely the way he’d instructed Sylvain to sound. “The gardens look marvelous today. Count von Vestra, I would be delighted to serve under a new liege. I am nothing if not dedicated to our princess.”

Glenn’s lip quivered. Sylvain reached up, tempted to wipe his tears away, and Glenn snatched his hand out of midair, squeezing so hard it hurt. “I  _ pretend _ just to survive,” he repeated in a whisper. “I  _ pretend _ to love a woman who represents everything I’ve lost. You don’t remember Faerghus as it used to be, Sylvain. I remember  _ before _ you all moved in. And every single  _ day -” _ he hissed, squeezing harder, sobbing around every word, “I wanted you out. I wanted you to get the fuck out of my house. So if you think I want to listen to you talk about  _ Ingrid _ as if I’m meant to give a damn about another intruder in  _ my _ home -”

Sylvain slapped him. He tore his wrist from Glenn’s grip and shoved him bodily away, fuming from head to toe, barely restraining himself from alighting upon Glenn and hitting and hitting and  _ hitting _ him. Glenn sobbed on the floor, leering at Sylvain from under his bangs, radiating hate.

“You want me to pretend? Fine.  _ You _ pretend. Pretend every day. Fake it, every minute,” Glenn spat. He shuddered around another sob and wiped his nose with his sleeve, devoid of all grace. “See what it does to  _ you _ after a decade.”

Sylvain turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. The door shook on its hinges as he slammed it, and heat pervaded every part of him, searing his esophagus. He was going to vomit. He was going to fucking  _ puke. _

Tears threatened him all the way back to the servants’ quarters, pursuing him as he fought them down, conscious, still, of Glenn’s word of caution. No, it wouldn’t do for any of the ladies to see him sobbing - his position was fragile enough as it was, he didn’t need to remind them that he was, in fact, quite young.

It proved to be the correct course of action when he stumbled in, his mind abuzz with anger and bitterness and fear until Dimitri looked up from where he played cards with the other boys on their evening break. “Sylvain!” he said brightly, “I’m actually winning!”

“Not for long,” Linhardt murmured under his breath, eyeing Ferdinand’s terrible poker face.

“Ah, Sylvain,” Lorenz hummed, sitting somewhat apart from the group and paging through a book; Sylvain was sure this had been preceded by him insisting he had no interest in cards, though he was really just reluctant to admit he was a sore loser. “Hubert paid a visit. He asked after you.”

Sylvain took a moment to respond. He had to physically swallow down the sourness in his throat, and Dimitri, who always seemed eager to hear what he had to say, frowned. He offered a reassuring smile and said, “Me? Gee, I wonder what kind of trouble I’ve gotten myself into now.”

“Well, Caspar’s already been tasked with cleaning the latrines, so I hardly think your punishment will be any worse,” Linhardt bemoaned; he was always a little more deflated without Caspar around. Sylvain considered asking what it was Caspar had done to land himself in trouble, but figured the answer would be longer than he was willing to listen to and he’d kept Hubert waiting quite long enough.

“You’ll find him in his chambers,” Lorenz supplied helpfully, and Sylvain nodded to the group before turning for the door again. He heard Dimitri say something, then a series of footsteps; Sylvain looked over his shoulder to find his blonde shadow approaching.

“Hey, go back! Don’t quit while you’re ahead.”

Dimitri shook his head, his mouth set in a determined line. “You appear to be feeling unwell. I couldn’t let you go without finding out what was the matter.”

Sylvain raised his eyebrows. He puzzled over what to say - it felt wrong, somehow, to confide in him when he’d so quickly become like a big brother to all of the boys in the servants’ quarters, especially when Dimitri himself was so sensitive. He thought it through, wondering for a moment whether Dimitri would understand what had passed between him and Glenn.

He hadn’t told either of them about the connections they all shared. Maybe it was selfish of him.

He gave Dimitri a lingering look, taking in the concerned tilt of his eyebrows, and felt his heart melt - just a bit. “Hey, I’ll be okay,” he promised, patting Dimitri’s shoulder. “I’m the older one here, you don’t have to worry about me.”

Dimitri pursed his lips, looking genuinely put out at Sylvain’s dismissal of his help - but it hardly mattered. Dimitri  _ was  _ the lion, and as firm an attachment Sylvain felt to him he knew it was hardly fair to vent his frustrations to the boy.

He’d carry on pretending.

* * *

Apparently, his pretensions had earned him something already, because Hubert had called him in to give him a promotion. He wasn’t so lucky as to rise all the way to his intended position in one fell swoop, but the ladies he’d curried favor with had spoken highly enough of him that he leapt to the top of the chain in the servants’ quarters, tasked with scheduling the younger boys and serving only the highest-ranked among the inhabitants of the Western palace.

Eventually, this might’ve meant servicing her Highness. But no, Sylvain intended to have long since been promoted again by the time she got there; the more significant development was that he would be serving Patricia and Hubert themselves.

He eyed Hubert as he was given his assignment, feeling the gears turning in his head - and Hubert, likewise, surveyed him. Hubert was only a year older than him, yet he was, in effect, the highest-ranked among all of them. Sylvain tilted his head and forced a smile, saying with the utmost of ease, “Well, then! I’m glad to know I’ll be seeing more of you, handsome.”

Hubert didn’t look particularly taken with his charms. But it was enough to earn him a nod of approval.

Glenn invited him back to his rooms the following day, and Sylvain wondered all the way there whether he’d be receiving an apology. Glenn did fall to his knees the moment he arrived, but he hardly seemed interested in begging forgiveness.

“It appears we have two things to celebrate today,” he purred, mouthing over Sylvain’s groin as he went.

“Happy birthday, little brother.”

* * *

Sylvain would be the first to be promoted to the rank of groom of the bedchamber out of his group. For the moment, it was a relief; no more fighting to maintain the interest of a stagnant, flighty group of women, no more sleeping around unless he damn well pleased, no more sharing rooms  _ or _ sharing beds.

None of the boys he’d all but raised over the past year and a half were terribly surprised. Caspar had the decency to cheer; Lorenz congratulated him, though envy seeped through in every word; Bernie pouted at the thought of losing his favorite - and only - beta-reader. Sylvain promised Bernie, at the very least, that he’d always be happy to read another of his stories.

Dimitri, of all of them, was both the happiest and the saddest. He was a sweet boy, Sylvain thought, in how he fought back tears all while wishing Sylvain the best.

“Hey, it’s not as if we won’t see each other at all,” Sylvain reasoned. “I’m not going to go acting like you don’t exist, just because I’m higher ranked. You can visit anytime.”

Dimitri seemed placated by this. They all helped him gather his things - what little of them had any significance, in the face of what he was gaining - and make his way to his new room.

He stood at the threshold, surveying his new quarters, expecting something to give. He expected to find a new sort of peace there, welcoming him, softening the blow.

Instead, the bitterness only grew.

* * *

Ferdinand was the next to be promoted to his present position, and Sylvain knew more than anybody that he hadn’t taken anything approximating the path Sylvain had; earnest as Ferdinand was, he  _ had _ won the ladies’ favors, but not in their beds. He had romanced them, as sweetly and honestly as he was able, charming them with his straightforward demeanor and cheeriness.

The thing was, Ferdinand wasn’t acting. Sylvain  _ knew _ Ferdinand, and he knew that all of it - that earnest belief, that capacity to fall madly for whoever was presently in his line of sight - was an innate ability of his. Ferdinand  _ believed _ it when he roped these women in with his charms. Perhaps that was why he didn’t seem to be chafing against his own bitterness, as Sylvain did every single day.

Ferdinand was one thing. The one that truly  _ shook _ Sylvain was Linhardt.

He was twelve. He was only  _ twelve _ and he was being put up in luxury rooms, outfitted in finery, encouraged in his scholarship in order to be a fitting partner for her Highness. The first time that Sylvain escorted the tailors to his room and stood in the doorway, watching him being measured for an entirely new wardrobe, that familiar bitterness wrapped thorny tendrils around his arms, immobilizing him there, forcing him to watch.

He was really, really going to vomit.

Linhardt had always been… he hesitated to say mature. He certainly looked it, next to Caspar, but he was also straightforward - in a way that felt  _ rude, _ contrasting Ferdinand’s earnest charm - and defiant toward positions of authority. He was like a cat. A kitten.

However reluctant he may have been to admit it, Linhardt seemed somewhat put off by the adult nature of his new position - or maybe Sylvain was just making assumptions. He spent much of his time alone reading, even when Ferdinand all but begged for his company. He made a brief appearance in their shared space for dinner on his thirteenth birthday and then disappeared back into his room after calling for Caspar.

That, at least, resulted in some sounds of celebration coming from Linhardt’s room. Good.

Sylvain had needs, but something made him sick at the thought of fulfilling them with Ferdinand or Linhardt. So he returned to Glenn’s bed, again and again, and he carried on pretending.

* * *

She was smaller than the power she held over him.

He had to bow low to be on eye level with her as he kissed her hand. “Your Highness,” he purred, and he hoped he was imagining how his own bitterness dripped from every word. “You look as lovely as ever.”

She looked uncomfortable. She often did, with him around; he didn’t have to be a genius to know he was far from her favorite.

Funny to think he’d cultivated this presentation just for her, only for it to blow up in his face. Edelgard was smarter than any of the women he’d seduced on his way to the top, he’d give her that. She tolerated dates with him, but only just, and was all too eager to blow him off for Linhardt or Dimitri given the chance.

Perhaps it was for the best. Call it desensitization, call it whatever you want, but she seemed younger, in a way, than even Linhardt. She didn’t know sex. She didn’t understand this place.

Ferdinand claimed to be honestly in love with her, though she cared little for him. Dimitri, too, though Sylvain knew from their shared conversations that he just thought himself happy to see his sister again. Linhardt enjoyed conversations with her, but by Sylvain’s observations was a little more in touch with reality.

Still, nobody performed better than Glenn.

Every tiniest movement was a grand romantic gesture, when they were together. He was hardly taller than her, so he wore heeled boots and a straightened back when he was with her. He was at once her prince, her knight, her lover. He  _ inhabited _ his role, well-practiced after having known her sister.

She held no more affection for him than she did for Sylvain. 

She never put it to words, at least not where they could hear. Sylvain knew, however, that Glenn did not take the snubs lightly. He’d been Branwyn’s favorite, after all - it defied logic, him being so poorly favored by Edelgard.

“One of us will be the secret swain,” Glenn mumbled, staring, numbly, past Sylvain, up at the canopy of his bed. Sylvain paused, his hands lingering warmly over Glenn’s shoulders, caught in the midst of a massage.

“The what?”

Glenn’s next breath was a pained inhale, and Sylvain resisted the urge to flee. He hated when Glenn was like this. He’d rather just have sex, then leave, never having to talk about their various traumas, envies, and mistakes.

“The secret swain,” Glenn rasped. Sylvain waited for him to explain; it took a moment. “The one to take her Highness’s virginity. To break her hymen.”

Sylvain raised his eyebrows and sat back on his heels, sighing. He wasn’t getting out of this. “And what about it, Glenn?”

Glenn blinked slowly upward, staring vacantly into space. Finally, he said, “Well, he’ll have to lose his life. It’s a grave offense, causing harm to the future emperor’s person. One of us is going to be beheaded, and our families -”

He choked on his words, tears brimming out of his eyes. Sylvain took the information in, shocked at not having  _ known _ of this in all his time there. Of course Adrestia, wasteful, demanding Adrestia, had yet more horrors to unveil on its unluckiest residents.

And yet, his own fear of death wasn’t even his primary concern.

“Wait,” he mumbled, doing the math. Branwyn would have turned sixteen when he was nine. She would have lost her virginity, and her secret swain his head, when he was -

“Did Miklan,” he rumbled, and couldn’t finish. He didn’t have to, and Glenn didn’t have to answer; he turned onto his side, smothering sobs into his hands, 

And Sylvain was really, really,  _ really _ going to vomit.

He covered his mouth as he launched himself out of Glenn’s bed, running for the door, scanning the area for a basin, for something - but it caught up to him before he could find it and he knelt, retching, his head swimming with repulsion.

He thought of a small, pale body, of ghostly white hair, and the bitterness dug its barbs into his skin and drew blood. Pretty lilac-colored eyes wracked his entire body with sickness as he dug, dug, dug  _ deep _ trying to find him, trying to remember Miklan as he was, searching for his brother.

He couldn’t remember his face. And he’d been lost for such a  _ stupid _ reason.

Bile burned his throat as he pried himself off the floor and found his way to the wall. He pulled the cord he found there, knowing neither of them were in any state to call for servants any other way. He’d hardly be able to stomach a tray of pastries  _ now, _ but he didn’t want to be seen like this, either.

Glenn moved around in his bed. When Sylvain stabilized himself against the wall and looked back at him, he was facing him, tears spilling sideways down his face.

“Maybe it’d be worth it,” Glenn sighed, his voice rough from sobs. “Just to end this stupid lie.”

* * *

Hubert explained the role of the secret swain no more than a week later. Edelgard was approaching her sixteenth birthday, after all, and it was high time they focused on coaching everyone in their duty.

Tasks were divided; they were to exercise on a more regular basis, study up on Adrestian history and courtly manners, and teach each other how to pleasure their lady. Glenn and Sylvain had both had experience in that particular field, so it was left to them to ensure that the others at the very least knew how to make love.

“You take Linhardt,” Sylvain said, feeling queasy. “He’s too young for me.”

Glenn cocked an eyebrow. “He’s the same age you were when you lost yours.”

He hadn’t thought about that.

Ferdinand was talkative, but he was as eager as ever to learn. One might have thought he  _ hadn’t _ been raised as a whore when Sylvain taught him how to finger him, from how shocked he was at the revelation that men could lie together this way. Still, as clumsy as he was, he did a decent job of it.

Dimitri was similarly clumsy, but not nearly so verbose.

He kept stopping and starting. He kept pausing to open his mouth as if to say something, anything, and then shaking it off. Sylvain assumed at first that he was trying not to ejaculate early - he seemed like the type, after all - but as they carried on, he began to wonder whether it was something else.

“Okay, stop,” he panted, massaging Dimitri’s grip where it was threatening to bruise his hip. “Dimitri, what’s going on?”

Dimitri took a moment to catch his breath. He was flushed up to his ears and down to his chest, his eyes looking dewy as if  _ he _ were the one bottoming. He swallowed and said, “A… A few things.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded. He took a deep breath and pulled out, leaving Sylvain grimacing at the loss. He didn’t get to bottom often and Dimitri’s dick, to his surprise, was  _ nice. _ “I’ve just been thinking about El,” Dimitri murmured.

Sylvain took a second to place the nickname. “Edelgard?” he asked, feeling as if her name alone was burning his tongue. Dimitri nodded again. “What about her?”

Dimitri took a moment to sort his thoughts. Sylvain closed his legs, assuming, for the moment, that their tryst was over. He patted the space beside him and Dimitri lay there, still thinking.

“I suppose it’s just that - there’s one of her, and several of us,” Dimitri mused. Bitterness surged in Sylvain, tasting of bile.

“Well, that’s what we are to her,” he rumbled. “We’re disposable playthings, and she’s the all-important princess of Adrestia.”

Dimitri gave him a shocked look. “That isn’t what I meant.”

Sylvain swallowed. So Dimitri wasn’t quite there yet. Okay, good to know.

“I only mean that,” Dimitri murmured, gazing solemnly upward, “I want so badly to be… her first time. And every time. I want to be her one and only lover. But - that’s terribly selfish of me. Especially when if I were to  _ be _ her first, I would have to die.”

It occurred to Sylvain that he was not the one to talk to about this. He was about to inform Dimitri of that when Dimitri spoke again.

“I feel such jealousy, when I think of someone else laying their hands on her,” he whispered. “It frightens me. It’s as if my entire body is wrapped in thorns, and they’ll only hurt her if I try to touch her. But that’s selfish, isn’t it? I am here to breed an heir, nothing more. It is the same function that you or Linhardt or Ferdinand are intended for, and yet - even to think of  _ you _ with her, Sylvain, it… it pains me greatly.”

Dimitri had always been so sweet.

Sylvain gazed at him, wondering. Dimitri’s role was so much more important than he could ever know, and yet here he was, pining after a girl to whom he meant so little.

Words hovered at the tip of his tongue, begging to be spoken after so long, dripping with venom. He wanted to lecture Dimitri on how much he  _ meant _ to his people, to reveal to him how  _ dire _ things had become in Faerghus, how hardly any of Ingrid’s letters reached him due to Hubert’s censors and how  _ dearly _ he missed his family. He wanted to make it sting.

Instead, he made a decision. He pried himself out of Dimitri’s bed and grabbed for his robe, striding purposefully away even as Dimitri’s sweet voice called after him, wondering what, exactly, he had done wrong.

“Where’s Hubert?” he asked the hallway as he stepped into it. Ferdinand’s head popped up over the back of an armchair, down by the entrance to his own room. 

“I believe he is in his quarters. Are you finished already? I have some questions, if you have a moment -”

Sylvain ignored him and stepped away, the slapping sound of his feet meeting the stone floor echoing through the hallway.

* * *

Apparently, volunteers for the role of secret swain were not without precedent. It was a revelation that lingered on Sylvain’s mind in the days immediately following Edelgard’s sixteenth birthday, offering him a bizarre brand of comfort to contemplate. He wondered whether his predecessors had been as miserable as he was, or whether they were driven by some stupid, inflated sense of duty to their mistress.

He didn’t need to ask himself or Glenn whether Miklan had volunteered. It wasn’t in his character; Sylvain figured it was more characteristic of him to have been caught off-guard, given Glenn’s fear of having the same happen to him. Glenn, for his part, was more relieved to have his head off of the chopping block than pained at facing the loss of his lover of three years.

Really, nobody objected to his appointment, and nobody seemed particularly pressed to enjoy his company before he was gone. So much for being their “big brother”, he supposed - even if their connection there  _ had _ been genuine, Ferdinand and Linhardt offered no comfort now that their survival was ensured.

Nobody but Dimitri so much as tried, and Sylvain despised it, knowing as he did how he probably resented him for being granted the honor of her first time. He couldn’t stand it, so he asked for solitude rather than for comfort, except when Hubert arrived at his room to break down the intricacies of his duty.

“Your family will be informed that you died of illness,” Hubert told him coolly. He always showed Sylvain the same expression, and it always spurred Sylvain’s curiosity - call it an active imagination, or perhaps just boredom. What  _ was _ he hiding under there? “It would hardly be appropriate to divulge secrets of the future Emperor’s bedroom to the public, after all.”

“Hubert,” Sylvain interrupted, “Would you care to indulge a dying man?”

Hubert tilted his head back. “I believe I’ve made it quite clear that I have no interest in playing with my lady’s property.”

“Ha, ha.” Sylvain shook his head, smirking. At least  _ someone _ here was honest about their respective roles. “No, I have a question. About you.”

“I will not answer.”

“Are you in love with Edelgard?” Sylvain asked anyway. Hubert’s expression changed, just a hair - a twitch of his lip, a sprinkling of color in his pallid cheeks. “Call it imagination, but I’ve always wondered.”

Hubert uncrossed his legs and escorted himself to the door. “Good day, Sylvain.”

* * *

They met at an assembly, just as rehearsed. They all bowed as their lady entered, clad in embroidered robes and wearing her hair down, striding with purpose to the foot of the bed. She turned to face them once she was there, inviting them all to stand up straight, and looked to Sylvain.

“Sylvain, stay. Everyone else may depart.”

“It’s my honor, milady,” Sylvain replied breezily, wearing the same smile he always did in her presence. Edelgard, for once, looked more nervous than annoyed in his.

Sylvain could feel Dimitri trying to meet his eye as he left. He kept his eyes trained on her Highness, unwilling to indulge his pity  _ or _ his jealousy in that moment. He did acknowledge Hubert, who gave him a stern look and said, “I will be listening to ensure that nothing endangers our lady.”

“Goddess forbid,” Sylvain supplied. Hubert departed, and the door closed and locked behind him.

Edelgard was holding herself taut as anything, and Sylvain decided to break the ice. “Did anybody ever tell Hubert there are better ways to get his rocks off than listening in on other people?” he joked. Edelgard sighed.

At long last, she met his eye. “Sylvain,” she said, quite serious, “Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything for you, milady.”

“Just… Drop the act,” she exhaled, and for a moment, she looked  _ tired. _ “I understand how little this means to you, in the end. I’m sure it goes without saying that it means something very different to me,” she murmured, crossing her arms over her stomach. She almost looked queasy. “It’s your last night, after all. Don’t you owe it to yourself to be genuine, for once?”

Sylvain blinked. He watched her, wondering, sorting her expression, feeling something climbing up out of his throat, like a seedling planted years before was at last coming into full bloom.

“I hate you,” he confessed.

A silent moment passed between them. Her breath came heavy, as if she were fighting back tears, and Sylvain couldn’t have cared less.

“I see,” she said at last. She waited, then added, “Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

“Oh, plenty,” Sylvain laughed ruefully. “But you know what? If I’m being perfectly honest - and I guess, for once, I am - I’d rather just get this out of the way, and spend the last hours of my life not having to look at you.”

Edelgard inhaled, then exhaled, long, slow, and pained. He could hear her swallow. “I understand that my words ring hollow. Believe me, I understand. I’ll keep it brief.” She lifted her head and met his gaze, her mouth set in a stern line. “I’m sorry that you’re being made to sacrifice your life for someone you feel so much enmity for.”

It gave him no relief.

* * *

Hubert came for him the following morning. He escorted him to a secluded area of the castle and bent him over a sink, then began massaging black dye into his hair. Sylvain didn’t question it - he assumed it, as well as the haircut and the bath he was given shortly thereafter, were all some strange Adrestian tradition. 

He carried this thought with him as Hubert at last covered his face and escorted him outside. He took care to absorb each individual sensation as he stepped along, because otherwise he would think about Dimitri, or about Glenn, Felix, or Ingrid, or even about Edelgard.

He hoped he wouldn’t be missed. He hoped his father wouldn’t hurt anyone when he found out.

Step, step, step. Grass brushing his heel where his trousers rode up. Cool air working its way under the burlap and grazing the back of his newly-trimmed head of hair. Anything that wasn’t the memory of Felix’s crying face.

And then -

The sack was lifted and reins were pressed into his hand. Sylvain blinked past the sudden brightness flooding his vision, squinting into the light. He was face-to-face with a great black horse, who shuffled its hooves at a look from him. There were bulging saddle bags hanging off its sides.

“Franz von Vestra, you are hereby acquitted of all charges of sedition,” Hubert announced from his side, and Sylvain turned to stare, awestruck, at him. They weren’t at the main stables - Sylvain was acquainted with them and the horses within, and he wasn’t at all familiar with this steed. “Further instructions for your reintegration into society can be found in your saddle bags, but let it be known that you are to evacuate Enbarr and the surrounding areas for the remainder of your life. Furthermore, you are never to tell the public of what you saw or experienced while in captivity, or the circumstances leading up to your arrest.”

Hubert paused to give Sylvain a stern look, letting the announcement sink in before asking, “Do I make myself clear?”

Sylvain stared at him, his mouth hanging half-open. Finally, he nodded and whispered, “Thank you.”

Hubert sneered. “You have only her Highness to thank. Safe travels.”

* * *

Sylvain knew, from the moment that Felix entered the Castle Fraldarius library, Ingrid close behind, that it would take an act of the goddess herself to tear him away from them again.

Felix took a lingering moment to stare him down, gaping, blinking rapidly. His hair had grown; he wore it in a bun now. He stared at Sylvain’s hair, too, and he could hardly blame him - he’d been a bit taken aback when he’d first seen the black color on himself, too. Felix covered his mouth, his eyes narrowing as he fought back tears.

Ingrid didn’t hesitate nearly so much. His name passed over her lips like a prayer, and then she was  _ on _ him, gasping around incredulous sobs, saying he was  _ dead, _ they’d been told he was  _ dead, _ she’d almost forgotten his face, and she couldn’t believe he was back.

Felix stepped forward. “Sylvain?” he mumbled, sounding small.

Hubert’s directions hovered in the back of his head, easily dismissed. Now wasn’t the time.

He tilted his head and smiled. The tears finally came - his, Felix’s, and Ingrid’s - when Felix crossed the room and tucked himself into Sylvain’s embrace. He inhaled their scents, emotion stirring in his chest, pulling real emotion, real sobs, from his mouth.

Sylvain, despite it all, thought of Edelgard - that strange, cruel,  _ giving _ woman who had made this all possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is hard to put a date on, but I have a couple commissions to work on so I'll say no less than three weeks from today. But we'll see - I finished this chapter quicker than expected, so who's to say it won't happen again!
> 
> As for the POV character, he doesn't want to share Edelgard's toys.
> 
> [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/glittergluwu) | [CuriousCat!](https://curiouscat.qa/GlitterGlue)


	3. Chamberlain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t understand what you want from me. I believe I’ve provided convincing arguments on all three of their behalfs, and you’ve offered me nobody else to consider.”
> 
> “You’ve named your long-time crush and your two closest friends,” Hubert offered. Edelgard pursed her lips again. “I urge you to take this decision seriously, Lady Edelgard.”
> 
> “Fine,” she said, straightened, and met his gaze. “You find me a husband as politically advantageous as Dimitri, as deserving as Linhardt, and as personable as Caspar. I’m sure it will be a simple task, with the resources and _time_ at your disposal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hubert's here!!! And all my predictions about this chapter are.... Correct. It both took me longer and Is Shorter than either of the other two, but! It does do what I'd like from it, so I won't hold that against it. I hope you guys don't mind - next chapter should more than make up for it.
> 
> I have a lot less to say about this one than about Sylvain or Caspar, so I'll just say thank you for reading this far and bon voyage!

_ You’d weep to see the Fraldarius estate now, Glenn. The gardens are finally flourishing and we even had the funds to hire a few new housekeepers from town! Not to speak ill of our existing staff, of course, but it goes without saying that the ladies have slowed a step in the time since you left. I couldn’t speak highly enough of our new financial consultant - Franz has a flair for the grandiose, yes, but he also has the accumen to ensure that lifestyle is supported. I haven’t seen Rodrigue this relaxed in years.  
_ _ Speaking of Franz, it’s good to have another lancer to practice against. My swordwork has improved over the years with Felix, but if I’m to achieve my dream of reviving Faerghus’s old culture of chivalry, lancework will be vital. He has a lot to work on after the soft life he’s lived, but Sylvain is - _

It was one slip, just the one. Ingrid had long been a clumsier wordsmith than Sylvain - knowledge that Hubert grasped from so long moderating the letters that made their way into and out of the Western Palace - but Hubert had no doubt that Sylvain had counselled her on how to get information to their loved ones - or, rather,  _ one - _ still remaining there. No longer did her letters carry mention of the Liberate the Lion movement, no longer did they reference old Faerghus unless to speak to the more “harmless” aspects of the culture, no longer did Hubert burn every other letter.

Still, even the singular mention of Sylvain’s name was enough to warrant disposal of this missive and suspicion toward Sylvain. Hubert had made it explicitly clear in his discharge papers that Sylvain was to live as if his previous persona was dead; Glenn was never to know he had survived, and the rest of his family could only know him under his new name. To be flouting these simple rules now, when Edelgard had begged for him to be spared…

Hubert conjured a black-and-purple flame and reduced the letter to ephemeral ashes, ones that spun away into the air and disintegrated altogether. Pity, that. Glenn was always in a more agreeable mood when he actually received letters, however much he played at indifference toward his former family.

He exhaled steadily, pausing to survey the remainder of the pile of letters. Many Western Palace residents, primarily the elder ones, were less accustomed to communication from outside, but the gentlemen closer to his own age received their fair share. To think, from the outside looking in, this was his only duty of any importance, the only duty he received recognition for despite how many hours he spent crouched over this very desk.

All for her Highness, he supposed.

Never mind the rest, for the moment. If the sunlight filtering between the heavy curtains of his office was any indication, it was very nearly time for his audience with Lady Edelgard.

He pushed away from his desk and paused to place the rest of the stack in the top drawer, taking care to lock it. Ferdinand could certainly wait another day to hear whatever asinine things his cousin had to say about fashionable  _ teas. _

Hubert paused to secure his cape before exiting his quarters. Above all else, Hubert maintained his position within the Western Palace not by running them efficiently - though he certainly had a talent in that department - nor with his closeness to her Highness, but by putting on the illusion of caring about the goings of the place, as though they had any real significance in his politics. Having Bernadetta as his confidant certainly seemed to help - she had a personal passion for crafting ornate, dark patterns that he believed suited him quite nicely.

Fools might call that preoccupation with his looks vanity. Vanity was for those peacocks that passed themselves as men, the grooms of the bedchamber. Hubert held a precarious and secretive position; half the battle was dressing the part.

He stepped out the door, schooling his expression and leering at a small throng of houseboys as he passed them. Intimidation. Scrutiny. Fear.

Edelgard was seldom to be found in her designated chambers during her visits, unless she was meeting Dimitri; that obvious favoritism was another issue, though Hubert saw little reason to interfere. Previous chamberlains of the Western Palace might have pressured her to have more consideration for the fragile egos of the other grooms, but barring Linhardt Hubert had no such investment, and Linhardt himself had never expressed any interest in sharing Edelgard’s bed.

She would likely be in the central courtyard. It was a warm, sunny area, cozy and comfortable even in late autumn. She would be communing with Linhardt, catching up on his research, or indulging a brief spot of tea in a weak attempt to placate Glenn or Ferdinand, or -

_ “HYUNH!” _

Or sparring with Caspar. How troublesome.

She was dressed down, pale skin glistening with sweat. He was dressed likewise, and their bodies were pressed close, swaying back and forth in a barbaric imitation of some intimate dance. His arms were around her.

“You’d best school your expression before it freezes that way,” drawled Linhardt, lounging in the grass like a snake, hardly even noticeable unless he moved or spoke. He was propped on one arm, watching the pair with mild interest as Edelgard at last broke Caspar’s hold and hurled him ass over tit away from her. Linhardt was dressed in perfectly regal attire, no doubt hand-crafted for him by Bernadetta herself.

No matter. Linhardt knew full well they couldn’t afford to demote him for failing to keep up appearances. Lecturing him on propriety had long since proven useless.

Instead of lending weight to Linhardt’s observation by objecting to it, Hubert paced past him to where Edelgard had pinned Caspar and offered a gloved hand. “My lady,” he cut in.

“Goodness, is it that time already?” Edelgard breathed, accepting the hand. Hubert’s fingers tightened of their own accord as she bent forward, her loose shirt coming away from her -

“Next time, I’ll getcha!” Caspar heaved, lying sprawled on the ground and showing no desire to rise. Hubert’s eye twitched. Edelgard chuckled.

“Come now, Caspar. It’s so rare you have an opportunity to nap with Linhardt nowadays - you might say I’ve done you a favor,” she pointed out. Spurred into action, Caspar listlessly hiked himself onto his hands and knees and dragged himself toward Linhardt. Hubert forced down a sigh as Linhardt willingly tucked his sweating, dirty friend under his arm and snuggled in to sleep.

Edelgard, of course, looked on for longer than was, perhaps, appropriate. It was enough to make Hubert seethe - but not quite so much as her taking a seat at a patio table no more than a quarter of the way across the courtyard from the pair.

He must have hesitated longer than intended, because she glanced between him and Caspar and Linhardt before he sat. “Look, Hubert,” she began, “I trust my life to both of them in their own ways. Even if they were inclined to listen, I would see no harm in letting them.”

“It is a mistake to instill trust in everyone who crosses your path, my lady.”

“You’re right. And I don’t,” Edelgard insisted. “Linhardt was hand-picked by  _ you, _ Hubert. That’s the best endorsement I can imagine.”

He had little to say to that.

“I assume you’d like to be brought up to date on expenditures?” he began, folding his hands and crossing his legs. To his immediate surprise, Edelgard shook her head.

“I’ve heard the latest from Lorenz already, and Linhardt has brought me up to speed on his research,” she informed him, creasing her brow. “I’m afraid it has something more to do with your official position here.”

He took care not to let his disappointment show. “Really, now? I don’t suppose we’ve already managed to cut funding to this wasteful place?”

Edelgard released a low laugh. “No. In some ways, it’s the opposite - I’ve been told I must take a husband before I’m placed in consideration for the throne.”

It was so chilly in this courtyard. It seemed the weather was at last catching up to the season.

“I suppose they’re of the mind that your suitor must be chosen from among your concubines, considering how few of your male peers have been permitted to remain in their own houses,” Hubert posited, and Edelgard nodded.

“It’s not out of the ordinary, of course,” she sighed, “But it’s still a pity. I think it’s counterintuitive, you know - if I’m to establish a regime focused on excellence instead of bloodline, it makes no sense whatsoever to bother with finding a noble husband. That in mind, I do have a few suggestions.”

Hubert raised his eyebrows; that was all the invitation Edelgard needed.

“Dimitri could -”

“No,” he replied.

“Hubert, consider it - Faerghus has never stopped fighting back against Imperial rule. I can’t right the wrongs inflicted by my father, but having a Blaiddyd as a co-ruler might help to give us the benefit of the doubt.”

“It could also embolden him to take power for himself, and himself alone,” Hubert countered. “He hardly holds water as a martyr, the way he is; one can hardly place their faith in a prince they’ve never so much as seen. The strongest move is to keep him in the shadows and let whatever pockets of rebellion remain fizzle out.”

“He’s not going to usurp me, Hubert. He’s a sensitive soul - I think having him be my primary support could be good for me.”

It stung, and Edelgard hardly knew it; her smile held firm, the same kind expression she always wore when speaking of her fondness for her childhood friend. Hubert tightened his grip where his hands were nestled together in his lap. “He is sensitive because he does not  _ know. _ That sensitivity will cave to vengeance when he discovers the state of his home country.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Hubert,” Edelgard pressed, leaning forward; Hubert held firm.

“I will not entertain this girlish delusion any longer, Edelgard,” he countered. “Tell me your next suggestion.”

Affronted as she was, Edelgard continued. “Well, considering all that we’re asking him to do, I feel it would only be fair to offer the honor to Linhardt.”

“Courtly affairs will distract him from his duty and having a husband be so clearly disinterested in sharing your bed will sully your reputation.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” called Linhardt. Hubert sent him a scathing glare and he silenced himself.

“I still think it might be nice to have you in Enbarr, Linhardt,” Edelgard offered. “And you’d be closer to Caspar.”

“You seem more interested in keeping them close than even they do,” Hubert pointed out. “And you’ve only exposed your personal bias by indulging that interest. Who else?”

Edelgard frowned, pursed her lips, and said “Caspar.”

“And what, pray tell, would that achieve?”

“He’s a second son, Crestless, and I enjoy his company. He may not have a political advantage in the traditional sense, but marrying him would lend credibility to our own political beliefs and persuade dissenters.”

“And what shall you do about finding a new bodyguard that you can trust with discretion? He is already a poor fit for the role, and you suggest granting him access to even  _ more _ sensitive information as your husband and bringing yet another into our fold?” Hubert coolly countered. “Furthermore, as dedicated as he is to Linhardt, he would invite the same scrutiny as him.”

“I’m strong enough to protect myself without a bodyguard, Hubert. If I cannot find comfort in knowing that the torture I endured has given me strength to endure, then what was it good for?” Edelgard murmured; despite himself, Hubert felt his heart begin to waver. He held his ground, however, and watched her until she spoke again.

At long last, she caved. “I don’t understand what you want from me. I believe I’ve provided convincing arguments on all three of their behalfs, and you’ve offered me nobody else to consider.”

“You’ve named your long-time crush and your two closest friends,” Hubert offered. Edelgard pursed her lips again. “I urge you to take this decision  _ seriously, _ lady Edelgard.”

“Fine,” she said, straightened, and met his gaze.  _ “You _ find me someone as politically advantageous as Dimitri, as deserving as Linhardt, and as personable as Caspar. I’m sure it will be a simple task, with the resources and  _ time _ at your disposal.”

Another insult - this time, an intentional one. Hubert pressed his lips together, leering steadily into Edelgard’s challenging expression, searching for something to say. She held his gaze for a moment, then stood. “Caspar, come. We’re going to visit Dimitri,” she called, and Hubert heard Caspar jerk awake with a graceless snort.

He lingered where she’d left him.

* * *

He seldom took his work outside of his quarters, and for good reason; the work he did was private, sensitive, and often went above even Edelgard’s head. Upon returning to his office, he unlocked and slid open the first compartment where he’d stowed the stack of letters to residents; then, frowning, he shuffled them back and lifted the switch underneath.

The opening of the secret compartment was silent as ever, because he had designed it to be. He knelt and reached beneath his desk, sliding the sheaf of parchments from his secret inbox and pressing it closed before gently rolling them and tucking them in his sleeve. These would be reports from his various spies around the various territories, committed via a secret chute that the regular mail carriers didn’t know about; reports on pockets of resistance around Faerghus, reports on the various interpersonal feuds in Leicester, and reports on the Seven - once-esteemed parents of so many of the young men presently imprisoned just down the hallway from him.

He clutched his sleeve, breathed deep, and departed his rooms, stepping quickly and quietly away from the grooms’ quarters to the less palatial and more grounded areas. The tailors weren’t far from the grooms, naturally; nobody else dared demand so much of their time. Another antiquated tradition, maintained on the ruling that the grooms needed new clothing for every audience with her Highness - which, needless to say, Hubert had abolished on grounds of it being yet another unnecessary extravagance the moment he’d been placed in power there.

The rooms were no less well-populated for it, unfortunately. And because Bernadetta had accepted so much of the creative freedom afforded them as well as the fact that Hubert maintained a smaller group of grooms than was tradition, the lion’s share of them were left doing menial repairs to guards’ uniforms or chatting with their friends in the meantime. They each paused to offer Hubert a bow in their turn, but turned quickly back to their work - or their friends.

It made him sick. The entirety of the Western Palace was built on a foundation of waste.

Bernadetta’s private residence had once been a storage room; she had slowly moved into it without his knowledge, supported by her fellow tailors. They maintained an odd degree of near  _ worship _ of her, the one measure of judgment Hubert couldn’t bring himself to hold against them. Her existence in the Western palace as the only woman aside from Edelgard permitted to enter notwithstanding, she was far and away the best tailor out of any of them.

She was also a delightful teatime partner, assuming she could be persuaded to leave her room or that Hubert was in the mood for tea.

When he knocked, he heard a little yelp from within, then a “Y-yes? Who is it?”

His lip curled with amusement. “Are you unwilling even to hazard a guess?”

The door opened, just a sliver. One wide gray eye peeked out at him. “Hubert! I-I’m so sorry, did I miss tea? I knew I was forgetting something today…”

“Of course not. I was merely hoping for a spot of company while I did some work, if you would care to indulge me.”

“Sure,” Bernadetta breathed, then stood still. After another moment, she jerked. “Oh! I should let you in,” she stammered, holding the door open just far enough to permit his entry. He couldn’t help but chuckle as he slid in.

Her room was not quite so lavishly furnished as the grooms’ or his own, but Hubert found its charm irresistible. Her bed was not so much a  _ bed _ as a  _ nest, _ a charming little nook within her charming little nook where a smattering of works-in-progress awaited her, ranging from embroidered pillows for her own use to a suit in the familiar maroon she favored when designing for Ferdinand. More works-in-progress littered the rest of the room, on and off of mannequins, hung on hooks along the wall or stranded on the floor, some of them clearly abandoned altogether in corners or crumpled beyond recognition. She’d hung curtains around her bed, lain pillows on the ground upon which to sit, and, Hubert suspected, employed the help of her fellow tailors to bring in a long, low table where she might share coffee with him on occasion.

Bernadetta herself had grown into the only mental image Hubert could conjure when trying to imagine what sort of odd, charming,  _ elegant _ creature could comfortably inhabit this space; the clothes she made for herself were seldom particularly fashionable, crafted more for comfort than for appearance, but they suited her nonetheless. She wore shorts that always stood visibly out from her shorter skirts, bulkier tops, and long socks. Her hair had grown long enough recently that she’d become more comfortable experimenting with it, pinning it back or up and ruffling it and letting it grow wild whenever she became swept up in her work.

It appeared that was just what had been occupying her when he’d knocked, in fact. One half of her head was ruffled up, pulled from her ponytail by worrying fingers, and as he approached she scrambled to scoop drawing materials and sketchbooks from the table. He tilted his head to catch a glimpse, surprised to see some rather grandiose ballgowns on the page.

“I don’t suppose you’ve developed a taste for the extravagant?” he posited, eliciting a squeak from her.

“No! I… Actually, Edelgard asked me to design a gown for her,” she mumbled, bringing her materials closer and hugging them to her chest self-consciously. “I, uh, had to beg her to let my first project be an unimportant one… but she did say she’d like to see what I can do. So it’s not  _ for _ anything, but it’s… for her.”

He nodded tersely, his mood soured with the reminder of their disagreement. He mutely settled himself on the opposite side of the table and carefully slid his sheaf of papers from his sleeve, allowing Bernadetta to set herself to whatever task she deigned to perform next.

“Want some coffee?” she suggested first, and when he shook his head, she took up one of her sewing projects and left him to it. The reports were hardly out of the ordinary - he hadn’t ordered any political assassinations, for instance - and didn’t demand much attention altogether, but it was nice, he thought, to have some company for the duration of the task.

It was without even pausing to consider, once he finished digesting the first page, that he lifted it away from its brethren and set it aflame in miasma; it was only when Bernadetta screamed from the other side of the table that he registered how alarming it must have been to witness without warning. He looked up with a start to see Bernadetta with her shoulders hiked up past her ears, wide-eyed and bewildered.

“Apologies,” he said. She took a deep, shaking breath, then offered him a smile.

“Did… D-did something make you mad?” she asked.

He considered his options; he was well aware that Bernadetta was sensitive to the anger of others and likely to panic if it seemed he was displeased, so lying to cover himself would do little to assist him in this scenario. Furthermore, they had been confidants since the very beginning of her transition, and her room was among the most secure in the entire palace…

A half-truth, then. “It contained sensitive information. I was done processing that information, so I disposed of it to prevent it from falling into untrustworthy hands.”

“Oh,” she sighed, seeming relieved. Hubert began reading again, satisfied that she wouldn’t pursue the topic further - but he was soon to be proven wrong. “Wait, how can you be sure you remember all of it?! I’d be so scared of forgetting, especially if it’s important…”

“Practice,” he said simply. “I have long been tasked with remembering sensitive information without need for reminders. My father used to give me materials to read within a minute, and then quizzed me on their contents without allowing me to review.”

“Wow,” she breathed, gazing at him with awe in her eyes. “That… sounds…”

“If it’s all the same to you,” he murmured, “I would prefer to avoid another heart-to-heart about our unfortunate upbringings, today.”

“Eek! Sorry!”

“No need for apologies,” he assured her. They fell quiet again.

At least, they did until he reached the bottom of the second page and set that aflame, just as he had the first. He lifted his gaze just long enough to see her peering at him over the upper edge of his dossier; he lifted an eyebrow, and she looked down.

“I just - I’m surprised you’ve been able to stay in practice,” she admitted, twiddling her needle between two fingers. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have so many sensitive matters to tend to, you know. Here.”

He was thankful that she had averted her gaze; otherwise, she might have spooked at what she saw in his expression. He schooled his tone as he replied, “I am no less Edelgard’s personal retainer for the fact that I’ve taken up residence here.”

“No, I-I know! I’m sorry,” she wilted. He struggled with himself for another moment, but she continued on her own. “I j-just think it’s cool how - how you can k-keep things running here and - and manage things for Edelgard, too. I don’t think I know anyone else who could juggle that.”

Her cheeks were pink. Hubert blinked.

“That’s… kind of you,” he said at last. She cleared her throat and wiggled a little, pulled her project closer as if to shield her face. As it so often did in her presence, his heart grew soft.

He turned once more to his work, but Bernadetta was not quiet for much longer. “Um,” she began, waiting for him to lift his gaze before continuing, “I’m - I’m sorry if this is too much to ask, but - what kind of… information… No, I’m sorry, that’s -”

“I’m afraid some of this intel is too sensitive even for lady Edelgard,” Hubert explained, carefully firm in tone, “it would hardly be appropriate for me to share with you.”

“E-even Edelgard? How… I mean, it’s okay, you don’t have to - to tell me anything, I’m just curious, like, vaguely?” Bernadetta blustered on, her voice pitching upward the longer she spoke. Hubert held out a hand on instinct, but it only startled her more, startling her backward.

“Edelgard is too consumed with the political atmosphere of Enbarr and of the Imperial court to preoccupy herself with the more global politics of the rest of the continent,” Hubert replied, attempting, in some faltering way, to comfort Bernadetta with as much of the truth as he could spare. “And her father is beyond the point of caring, now. If I am to ensure that, once Edelgard secures her position as the legitimate successor, her Empire is ready to accept her reforms, there are certain… priorities… that I must take into my own hands.”

“Is Edelgard’s succession in question?” Bernadetta asked, a furrow forming in her brow. Hubert swallowed.

“Not… in so many words.”

“But she’s the princess! This whole place is all built up for her, who else would -”

“That is not your concern.”

“So you’re... governing the continent? Without anyone knowing?” Bernadetta reasoned, her eyes growing wider with every word.

Hubert had said too much.

“I am not governing anything. I am laying the framework for Edelgard’s ascension,” he ground out, and Bernadetta jerked backward as if burned; he regretted his tone immediately and held his tongue.

She bit both of her lips and drew in a long, slow breath. It was a familiar practice, one he had taught her shortly after her arrival there; he waited for her to speak, watching her shoulders rise and fall with each breath until she opened her eyes once again, focusing on one clear spot on the table. He watched her focus moving up and down, tracing the patterns of the wood.

“Maybe it’s none of my business,” she said in a raw, quiet voice, “but I think Edelgard would at least like to know  _ what _ you do.”

“It is nothing out of the ordinary for any retainer of the von Vestra line, I assure you.”

“But Edelgard isn’t a traditionalist,” Bernadetta pointed out.

Hubert was growing exasperated. He curtly rolled his packet and tucked it back into his sleeve and stood up to leave, determined to ignore whatever further pleas Bernadetta directed his way - but to his surprise, she stood as well, quivering with anxiety and breathing heavily. She rocketed into his path and threw herself at him, planting her cheek on his chest and twining her arms around him.

He froze. It was the closest anyone had dared approach him in… he didn’t know how long.

“I - know - you - care about her,” she wheezed between breaths, high in pitch and trembling with every word. Hubert’s hands hovered about her, caught between touching her and pushing her away. “B-but - that doesn’t m-mean - you can go above her head.” One high breath, then she continued. “I think she’d want to know. You don’t have to tell me. But I think she’d want to know.”

Hubert swallowed. At long last, he cupped the back of her head where she had buried her face in his chest. He let the tension ease out of his shoulders.

“I will do what I must,” he murmured. She lingered where she was, still vibrating with fear, and he offered her whatever comforts he was able, however awkward he felt each movement was.

She drew in a deep breath. “I care about you, too,” she whispered, barely audible. “I get that she’s - she’s the only one you really think about, that way. B-but I don’t want you hurt, or… or anything. I care about you.”

It took a moment for Hubert to turn the implications over in his head. He inhaled sharply, his mind going blank.

“I,” he faltered. “I - I value your input,” he managed, then departed.

* * *

It was little surprise when Edelgard called him to her private room the next morning. She was dressed down again - a somewhat slimmer robe than she wore for audiences with her concubines - and sat with her feet propped up beside her on her lounger, holding a cup of tea. Caspar was close by as usual with one shoe off, picking between his toes.

She smiled when she saw him enter. “Caspar?” she caught her bodyguard’s attention, “Will you leave us for a few moments?”

Caspar looked as surprised as he felt. He sent a glance toward Hubert, then tussled with his boot for a moment before giving up for the sake of time and departing half-barefoot. Edelgard chuckled at him.

The door closed heavily behind Caspar. Edelgard gestured to the seat in front of her, and Hubert shook his head, a gesture Edelgard accepted without comment.

“Bernadetta came by to show some designs,” she said. “She took my measurements, too. You’ve chosen a good friend here, Hubert.”

The tension in his shoulders only grew.

Edelgard put down her tea. “I fear I’ve been unfair to you,” she said quietly. “It was unkind of me to discredit the work you do here. I know it has never been your intention to rest on your laurels because of your position - and if you could, you’d gladly leave this place and contribute whatever you were able to my cause, no matter how glamorous or dirty the job.”

“My ego is not so steep that I need you to pacify it,” Hubert murmured. “And whatever Bernadetta told you, she does not know the significance of what I did and did not reveal to her.”

“She knows that you keep secrets from me, at least,” Edelgard countered. Her voice was still low, placid. She was choosing her words carefully. “And she told me how much you value me. How much she values you,” she added, her expression softening. It took all of Hubert’s willpower not to avert his gaze.

“Her feelings for me shall never sway my heart.”

“The sentiment is appreciated, but you know very well that’s not what I mean to address.” She stood from her lounge, stepping around the tea table on her approach. “I need to know the severity of what you’re keeping from me. How am I meant to be a functional leader if you’re blinding me to the challenges I’ll face as one?”

“My purpose is to eliminate those challenges before they become a threat.”

“You speak of your purpose as though you’re nothing more than a tool.”

“The way I see it, it is not an inaccurate title,” Hubert insisted, purposefully keeping his tone cool. For the first time, he took a step back. “I exist to serve you, lady Edelgard.”

Edelgard took another step forward. “I wish you would challenge that mindset of yours,” she murmured. “I know how difficult it can be to visualize a world where the actions of your ancestors - and their relationships to mine - are no longer the arbiters of your life’s path. But Hubert, that’s precisely why I want to dismantle the systems that imprison us this way.”

“I  _ chose _ you, my lady. In fact, my own father discouraged it.”

“I know,” she whispered. Her lip trembled; he refused to acknowledge the emotion brimming from her expression. “But I’d like to persuade you, if I can, to demonstrate your commitment to me on a different path. One where we can be true and clear with one another - one where we no longer have any need for secrets or for operating in the shadows.

“I know it’s another girlish delusion of mine, and you’re free to mock me as much as you please. But I also know that there is no one in this world that I am better able to trust, if you’ll allow it,” she breathed. He realized how close he had allowed her to come when she scooped up his hand and cradled it in hers. “I’m no longer certain that I am even able to conceive a traditional heir, and you’re the one potential husband who I know would never hold that against me. I know, above all else, that you will  _ mean _ your vows when you swear to remain by my side in sickness and in health, until death do us part,” she carried on. Her eyes were growing red, her voice thick.

“I’d like to marry someone I care about, who cares for me,” she finished, laughing to herself a little, rubbing tiny circles into his palm with her thumbs. “I know it’s foolish, but it’s my own foolish little dream. So, Hubert, if you’re willing -”

He jerked away on instinct. “I cannot,” he cut in, turning his gaze, fixating on the opposite wall, his heart pounding into his throat. “Pray forgive me, but I cannot.”

“If you’re about to defer to tradition again -”

“I will gladly commit my entire life to you,” he spoke, every word tumbling over the next, every censor gone from his mind for the first time in years. “With or without a wedding vow, I have known my life belongs to you for a number of years now. But my lady -”

He looked to her, really  _ looked, _ consumed the hurt and the love and the astonishment in her gaze, feeling every pang he had suppressed for so many years, every pang he had ever felt when he watched her look at  _ him - _

“I cannot allow you to swear that you are mine, when I know very well that you are not,” he rasped, and all the hurt collapsed down on him, burying him in its rubble. He felt like a ruin as he watched her expression fall even further, taken aback at the revelation.

“Oh, Hubert,” she sighed, freezing him in place with the  _ pity _ in her gaze. “I never knew.”

He thought of Bernadetta, clinging to him with her fragile strength.

“Because you never looked my way,” he whispered.

* * *

He passed through the gardens that evening after realizing that he had read and re-read an entire page of his secret dossier without absorbing a word. It was a chillier evening, at last befitting late autumn, and he found the weather suited his mood quite nicely. Heavy clouds hung in the sky and the outdoor lanterns were hardly enough to penetrate the bleak gray atmosphere.

As he walked, however, he picked up a high, familiar sound through the angry rustling of leaves. It was the same irritant that pervaded the upper halls of the Western Palace each evening while Ferdinand practiced his singing.

It was not irritating for the fact that it was unimpressive; rather, Ferdinand had grown quite adept at the art. His striking tenor wouldn’t have been out of place in the Mittelfrank opera house itself.

No, the true source of Hubert’s vexation with that voice made itself clear as he rounded a hedge and saw them, two twin shadows standing among the flowers, the taller of the pair cradling the other as he sang. It was too dim to discern Edelgard’s expression, but Hubert assumed that it was one of fond exasperation with her pretty, stupid songbird, who had surely dragged her outside despite the weather because his fragile ego needed to be comforted.

Ferdinand was an extravagance above all else. He was eternally eager to please with so little to show for it. His contributions were of no importance to the state nor, by virtue of Edelgard’s indifference toward him, to the future of the country. His purpose was merely to be seen, to be a welcome diversion whenever their princess grew too preoccupied by stress. His affections were of as little importance to Edelgard as Hubert’s own, but he was nonetheless contented so long as Edelgard spared him a glance every now and again.

And oh, what Hubert wouldn’t have given to be like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still got some commissions to work through and some alterations to make on the outline for the two final chapters, so it might be a bit of a wait for the next one. Still, I'm excited to share it with you guys - I've been looking forward to writing it since I started this fic!
> 
> As for the POV character, he's Edelgard's (sort of) honored husband.
> 
> [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/glittergluwu) | [CuriousCat!](https://curiouscat.qa/GlitterGlue)


End file.
